


Like gravity from underneath, we can't outrun our destiny

by wordsinpaper



Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Alternate Reality, Endgame Quentin Coldwater/Eliot Waugh, F/M, Fillory (The Magicians), Happy Ending, M/M, Magic, Memory Loss, POV Quentin Coldwater, Prophecy, Quentin also fixes things, Quentin breaks things, Strangers to Lovers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-14
Updated: 2019-12-14
Packaged: 2021-02-26 00:55:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 40,874
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21784828
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wordsinpaper/pseuds/wordsinpaper
Summary: A talking rabbit appears out of thin air and Quentin's life takes a turn when he finds out that his grandmother left him the keys to a magical land. Overwhelmed, he wants nothing to do with it and plans on leaving it to someone better equipped to look after it. However, things change once he gets to know the place and a new High King is crowned.---Loosely based on the 2015 Hallmark movie "Christmas Land". I say "loosely" because I took many artistic licences here.
Relationships: Quentin Coldwater/Alice Quinn, Quentin Coldwater/Eliot Waugh
Comments: 4
Kudos: 55
Collections: Magicians Hallmark Holiday Extravaganza





	Like gravity from underneath, we can't outrun our destiny

**Author's Note:**

> First of all, let me thank the team behind this whole thing. You guys created something that inspired me to write the longest work I've ever written, even after what happened on the show that made me want to shrivel up and hide from the world and my own emotions for a bit.
> 
> This was hella fun to do, even if I ran into some real-life snags here and there. What started as a 15k work, ended up a 40k monster and I still don't know how that happened. I tried to make it as light as possible, but there's a couple of scenes there that kinda ran away from me, so there's a tiny bit of angst, but it's overall fun and cute. I think. I hope.
> 
> I also want to thank my partner for the MHHE, Eli, for capturing that sweet moment in their artwork.
> 
> Finally, thanks to Magnusismyrock and my good friend Kerry for their help in polishing off some sharp corners of my writing. This would be a mess without them.
> 
> Disclaimer: This will be a bit of a mix-up between the show and the movie, so there will be spoilers for both.

**~17 years earlier~**

There's the familiar small tug at the bottom of his stomach, and the air around him changes in a _whoosh_ that invades his lungs and makes him feel like flying.

He remembers the first time it happened like it was yesterday. His first thought had been about how he shouldn't have eaten so much candy beforehand. He can still picture his Grandmother Jane’s reaction when she saw the nauseated look on his face and, with a small laugh, explained that it was normal for him to feel like someone had ripped his guts out and thrown them inside a washing machine.

Now he's done this enough times to be used to it. His grandmother has been taking him to visit her house in this magical land for the last few years and it's worth every single quick punch to the gut. To be able to cross over and go into a world where magic and magical creatures exist? He wouldn't complain about anything ever again. Not even the weird food they sometimes served at the castle.

“Little Q?”

He looks up at his grandmother. That’s the other thing that never fails to amaze him.

Somehow, she rules a piece of this incredible world, along with her two brothers and two sisters. He's not entirely sure how that works. He always thought there was only ever really one true ruler of a Kingdom, and it's not like he can ask anyone. His grandmother only shrugs when he does, and the last time he asked anything Fillory-related to his father, he'd looked at him with a funny yet confused expression and told him that any fantasy questions should be directed to his grandmother, as that was more her domain. Whatever that meant... His dad was weird like that.

“Fillory to Quentin?”

“I’m here.”

His grandmother smiles kindly at him.

“Where did your mind go just now?”

He looks around him. How could he ever not think about this place?

“I was wondering what new trick Uncle Rupert is going to show me today.”

Her face wrinkles with joy and she shakes her head.

“One of these days he's going to teach you something he shouldn't.”

Quentin looks down and shrugs with embarrassment.

“It's okay, Grandma. It's not like I'll ever be able to make any magic like him.”

Her eyes take on a sad shine and her index finger taps the tip of his nose lightly. He can almost swear he feels a burst of magic coming from that single point of contact long before it's gone.

“You never know, Little Q. Maybe one day your magic will be what saves this Kingdom.”

He shakes his head and runs up to the big white tree in the middle of the field. It is already surrounded by hundreds of Fillorians of all ages. Quentin looks around at all the twinkling eyes and bright smiles, all expectant, looking up at the big tree.

The White Night is a very special event in Fillory. He remembers sitting on his bed and listening to his grandmother telling him all about it.

_“When my siblings and I became the rulers, we decided to celebrate it in such a way to give these people hope. You know, they weren’t immediately welcoming when we showed up and took over their land. Can you imagine someone walking into your house and claiming it as theirs? You certainly wouldn’t stand back and let them tell you how things would change from that moment on, would you?”_

_Quentin frowned but shook his head in response. Jane laughed._

_“Exactly. So we wanted to give them something special. We created this night for them; to celebrate the people and peace and love. Martin saw this huge tree just outside the castle and put a spell on it. Until the first light of the sunrise hits the tree, its branches will curl and uncurl as if moved by a soft breeze, and small bright crystals will appear and float down like snowflakes. When they catch them, these people will be filled with inner peace to last them for about a month. It’s the small break from all the bad things in life that these people look forward to every year.”_

_She paused to push his hair back, watching his face bloom with amazement._

_“Even if it weren’t made out of actual magic, the whole thing would still be magical, Little Q. And I don’t mean the white tree and the crystals. I’m talking about the awed grins of the adults and the twinkling light in the children’s eyes once all the troubles lift away from their shoulders and they’re allowed to simply be free.”_

_Quentin’s eyebrows rose._

_“Will I ever get to see it?”_

_Jane smiled softly and touched the tip of his chin. “Yes, my dear. I’ll take you to the next celebration. But we won’t tell your dad, ok? He keeps telling me I spoil you rotten.”_

A few months later, she makes good on her promise.

He had heard his grandmother tell his father she was taking him on a roadtrip to some amusement park that has some fun winter activities for the holidays. He hesitated for a bit, even saying he had to let his mother know before he could give them permission.

His parents had been having hushed conversations behind closed doors and his mother had taken to go away some weekends with her friends. On his part, Quentin pretended not to see his father’s sad look and politely declined any plans his friend Julia tried to make that would take him away from the house for long periods of time.

The only exception would be when his grandmother stopped by and asked his dad to please let her whisk away her only grandson.

One really awkward phone conversation later – where Quentin had to convince his mother that _“yes, I’ll be careful”_ and _“no, I won’t let Grandma take me somewhere I don’t want to go”_ and _“she’s not crazy, mom!”_ – Quentin and Jane finally got the green light.

She’d driven away to her house and Quentin had fallen asleep on the way. When they got there, she pulled him inside, told him to hold her hand and pulled out a box from her pocket.

Now, the fourteen-year-old finds himself in Fillory again.

He’s never been allowed to stay for the ceremony before, but things between his parents felt cold and distant, and one night he’d asked his dad if he could call his grandmother.

_“Did you mean it?” he asked as soon as he heard her voice through the receiver._

_“What did I mean?”_

_“About the healing tree. Uh, about… you know, you said it made you feel better for a whole month. I was wondering… maybe… could you take me to see it?”_

_“Oh, Little Q…”_

And that’s how it ended with his grandmother finally picking him up during the holidays to take him to Fillory for the White Night, unbeknownst to his parents.

“The ceremony won’t start for another couple of hours. What do you say we go check on your uncles and aunts before we bring you out to get you that crystal?”

He throws one last look at the enormous white pine tree and follows his grandmother inside the castle.

Uncle Rupert, the oldest of all the siblings, is the first to spot him.

“Quentin! My favorite Coldwater has arrived!”

And, as usual, Quentin runs to meet him halfway in a tight embrace. When he was younger, Rupert would lift him up in his arms and twirl him around until Quentin dissolved into happy loud giggles. Now that they are both older, they settle for a warm hug with big happy grins.

“It’s your first time celebrating the White Night, isn’t it, Mr. Coldwater?” comes Martin Chatwin’s voice from behind Rupert.

He pulls back and looks at the younger Chatwin brother, who always seems to be both the most mischievous and the one who acts the most like the responsible adult. His grandma told him once that he survived some not so nice things, much like Uncle Rupert and the war. Quentin doesn’t ask much about it.

Martin approaches him and gives him a candid smile, reaching out with a hand for Quentin to take. He shakes it respectfully.

“It is, Uncle Martin. Grandma said it was you who found it by the river, all those years ago.”

The smile on Martin’s face becomes kinder and bashful.

“Yes, well. I can tell you all about it while we try you aunts’ dinner for the night. And then we can watch the White Pine work its magic. What do you say?”

Quentin beamed at him and let Rupert throw an arm around his shoulders and steer him towards the dining room.

“Grandma,” he calls over his shoulder. “Are you coming with us?”

“In a second, dear. I’ll be right over.”

It wouldn’t be until much, much later in his life that Quentin Coldwater would remember the haunting shadow of that smile, a mix of sadness and guilt coloring its upturned corners.

* * *

**~Present Day~**

Quentin walks down the corridor of the apartment, a new spring in his step. He’s not quite sure why that is, but he has a feeling that today will be a great day for him.

He is grinning when he makes his way to the kitchen. Alice is already there, doubled over some papers while sipping on her morning coffee. He walks up to her and hugs her from behind, kissing the back of her neck.

“Good morning,” she replies, face breaking into a smile, turning around in Quentin’s arms to return the kiss properly.

“Are you leaving already?” he asks as she pulls back and moves past him to grab her bag.

“Yeah, sorry. I have to go in early today. We've got some paperwork to go over before we go to court. But I'll make it up to you tonight. There's that new place that opened up a couple of blocks from here, remember? I wanted to try it.”

Quentin beams at her.

“Yeah, of course. I'm guessing you're paying to make up for it.”

She chuckles in response.

“You've got it. Don't get lost in your head while you have breakfast and then arrive late to work.”

She puts a hand on his arm and pulls him closer for another kiss.

“Love you,” she says before making her way to the front door.

“Love you, too. See you later!”

The door closes softly behind her and Quentin inhales the delicious scent of hot coffee. He takes a sip and blows on it when the hot beverage leaves his lips tingling.

He nearly bursts out of his skin when a bunny falls on the kitchen island in front of him out of thin air.

“Holy shit!” he exclaims, jumping back.

 _“Fillory needs you. Help,”_ it seems to croak at him.

“What–” he starts, confused, but before he can, another bunny falls from seemingly nowhere and hitting the kitchen island softly.

_“Find button to travel here.”_

Quentin blinks and looks down at his mug, sniffing at it. He wonders for a moment if he's mixed up his meds, but one look around tells him he hasn't actually taken them yet.

“Better get on that before this whole thing escalates and I start seeing elephants or something.”

He turns around and puts his mug down in exchange for getting a glass of water.

Having taken his pills for the morning, he takes a deep breath, lets it out and turns back around.

Nope. The fluffy creatures are still there.

He approaches carefully and extends a hand.

“Fuck,” he breathes when his fingers meet fluffy fur. The bunny repeats its message.

_“Fillory needs you. Help.”_

“Fillory? Where have I heard that before?”

He's lost in thought when another bunny falls through.

_“Master Quentin. Your grandmother has the button.”_

He's suddenly thrown at that. His grandmother? She passed away not that long ago.

“What button? Am I going insane here?”

He touches the second bunny again.

_“Find button to travel here.”_

He lifts his hands from the furry creatures and rubs at his face instead.

“Oh, what the hell…”

He fills his glass up with water again and gulps it all down.

“Talking bunnies. Okay. Talking animals randomly showing up in my kitchen is a perfectly normal way to start my morning.”

Quentin looks at his mobile phone on the kitchen counter and thinks about calling Alice, but how the hell is he going to explain what's happening in front of him without sounding like he's finally lost it?

“Maybe I should just go to work and pretend nothing happened.” he runs his hand through his hair. “Yeah, because nothing did, Quentin. Animals don't just materialize out of nothing and start talking to you.”

Nodding to himself, he purposely avoids looking at the newest additions to his kitchen and makes his way to the bathroom.

He stares at himself for a long time while brushing his teeth. His mind is complete white noise with the word Fillory running over and over on the bottom of his metaphorical screen.

He's sure he's heard that word before, but he can't seem to remember.

Running his hand through his barely there facial hair, he decides it was a good idea to skip the razor today. He's not sure that would have actually worked well for him, given the current circumstances. He washes his face one last time with cold water and grabs his keys to leave the house.

* * *

It's almost lunchtime when the thought crosses his mind again. He realizes he's been mindlessly working, his computer screen filled with numbers he doesn't even remember typing in. It's somewhat worrying, because that means he'll probably have to stay longer to make sure he didn't mess up.

He leans back in his chair, closes his eyes and sighs.

_FilloryFilloryFilloryFilloryFillo-_

There's a soft sound and Quentin startles when something falls on his lap.

Considering the way his morning has gone so far, he should have guessed it would be a bunny.

“What ar– Not here, too!”

He picks it up and holds it close to his face, examining it carefully. It still isn't enough to prepare him for the image that is an animal opening its mouth and talking to him.

_“There's a letter. Find the button first.”_

Quentin squints at it for a moment longer. There's a knock on the door and Quentin freaks out a little bit, almost throwing the poor creature at his feet to hide it under his desk.

“Yeah?” he squeaks at the closed door.

It opens just as the bunny croaks again.

_“There's a letter. Find the button first.”_

His colleague stops at the door with a frowning smile.

“What was that?” she asks, amusement coloring her tone.

Quentin scrambles for his phone. “Uh. Just a… A voice memo. To, uh, remind me that I need to find buttons for this shirt I have. Uh. It's missing a couple and they're a weird design.”

His colleague gives him a strange look. Nothing he's not used to whenever he starts rambling at work.

“Okay… we're going down to that little restaurant at the corner for lunch. Want to join us?”

Quentin blinks, careful not to let his feet touch the bunny again.

“Uh. I… Yeah, yes, of course. I just need to check something… Here,” he adds lamely, gesturing at his computer screen.

“Sure. Just don't get lost in those numbers, Coldwater. We're going to go ahead and get us a table. Meet us there?”

He nods enthusiastically. Maybe a touch too much.

“Yes. Only 5 more minutes and I'll be right behind you.”

Apparently satisfied with that answer, or simply just hungry and not wanting to waste any more time decoding Quentin's ramblings, his colleague leaves with a small wave, closing the door behind her.

He sighs, relieved. He slowly rolls his chair away from the desk and peers down to look at his furry friend.

“Now, what am I going to do with you?”

* * *

It took Quentin about 10 minutes to realize the only thing he could do for the time being was to hide the small creature inside the bottom drawer of his desk. It was large enough to hide it. He wouldn't just leave the bunny to hop around and earn him a confused yet stern note from HR.

He was worried it would cause a mess while he was having lunch with his colleagues, but, as it turns out, he needn't be.

As soon as his colleagues went to their own workstations, Quentin made a run to his office. It's moments like these when he feels extremely grateful for the promotion he got that allowed him to get his own space, quiet and away from anyone else.

He runs inside and closes the door behind him, leaning against it for a second and gathering the courage necessary to open the drawer and face… He didn't even know how to put it anymore. Talking creatures are definitely on the _fantasy realm_ side of the spectrum that is so far away from the _working for a living_ side of the real world.

He crouches down and slowly opens the drawer. There is nothing there. Not a living animal nor any trace of it. No hairs left behind, no scrunched up papers, nothing.

He flops down on the floor.

“Ok, Quentin. Time to face it. This is the one that's going to make the therapist reconsider the frequency of our meetings.”

Just then his mobile phone starts vibrating in his pocket. He lies back and pulls it out to see who's calling him.

“Dad?” he talks into the receiver.

“Hey, Curly Q. Sorry to call you at work, I was hoping to still catch you during your lunch break, but I got somewhat distracted and, well,” his father apologizes with an embarrassed chuckle.

“I'm actually just getting back from it, so it's fine. Is something wrong?”

“Oh, no, no, sorry. I didn't mean to worry you. Shit! See, this is why I don't usually call you when you're at work. I just wanted to check if you and Alice were still coming over this weekend.”

Right. They'd planned it so far ahead that he had completely forgotten about it. He's sure it didn't cross Alice's mind either.

“Uh. Yeah, dad. I mean, I'll be there for sure. I'll confirm with Alice when I get home. You know how it is when she's working on a case.”

“Yeah,” his father replies in a neutral tone. The same tone Quentin forces himself not to read into every time Alice cancels their plans because of her job.

She asked Quentin once if he thought his father didn't approve of their relationship. He'd assured her that he was just disappointed that they didn't get to spend a lot of time together and that he didn't blame her for anything at all.

But three years later, he wasn't so sure anymore. He wasn't going to give it that much thought, though.

“So I'll see you on Friday night?”

“Yes,” Quentin answers assertively. And before he can think twice about it, he adds, “Uh, dad? Does the word Fillory mean anything to you?”

He hears his father's warm laugh on the other side.

“Oh, Curly Q! You were obsessed with those! How did you forget all about it?”

“With those? What are they?”

But no sooner had he voiced it, did it become clear in his mind. They are books.

“There's a bunch of Fillory books,” his dad confirms. “I think it was your grandmother who got them for you when… Well, when your mother and I got divorced.”

Quentin sits up and leans against his desk. There's so much to react to in what his father told him that he takes a moment to himself.

“Quentin?”

“I'm here. Just trying to put it all together. Do you think I forgot because of how it was tied in to… that?”

His father clears his throat.

“I think this might be something you should bring up in your next therapy session. You're still going to those, right?”

“Not sure I could deal without them, to be honest,” he answers truthfully. “Dad, when grandma died…”

“I kept the books, Quentin,” he interrupts softly.

He can't really explain it, but the tight coil of anxiety Quentin hadn't even noticed was applying extra pressure on his chest suddenly loosened.

“Oh,” he whispers. “Good. That's… That's good. Could I… maybe take them with me after this weekend?”

He can tell there's a smile on his father's face after that. “Of course. I'll bring them down from the attic for you.”

“Thanks, dad. But be careful when coming down the stairs.”

“Don't worry, son. I love you.”

Quentin’s face breaks into a genuine smile.

“I love you, too, dad. See you on Friday.”

* * *

The rest of his work day goes by like any other. There were no more surprise appearances at the office, which is already an improvement from how the day had been going up until that moment.

Still, when he inserts his key in the lock of his front door, he hesitates before turning in slowly. He takes his time opening too, careful to look around and make sure there are no fluffy bunnies in sight.

Ten minutes and a house tour later, Quentin is happy to note that there are no talking bunnies in the premise. Using the same argument, he can also sadly affirm that, for some weird reason, he made all those weird things up.

But then again, _FilloryFilloryFillory_ …

Why is his brain coming up with this now, after so many years? He didn't even remember it anymore and now…

His memories of his grandmother are also scarce. His father has told him many times, especially since her passing, that they were very close and he loved her so much. However, the more he tries to see her in his mind, the more it feels like he's trying to trap water in his hands, helplessly watching it flow and escape through the gaps between his fingers instead.

Funny how some of your best moments in life happen when you're still young, but they're also the first ones to vanish from your mind.

This whole Fillory thing, though, seems to have started warming up some inactive corner of his mind. He can almost picture the glinting crown on her head and the delicate feel of her robes, with the green scenery of her kingdom behind her.

He chuckles to himself as he finally sits down on the couch to remove his shoes. Of course he pictures his grandmother as some sort of Queen. The little he remembers from the books (and he only recently started remembering little things) is related to the kingdom of Fillory, which, strangely enough, was ruled by people from Earth, instead of native Fillorians.

He leans back and lets the couch accommodate his tired body.

Maybe that's it. Maybe he's been overdoing it at work and now he's having all these strange thoughts. He should definitely bring it up in his next therapy session.

His neck rolls to the right so he can see the clock on the wall of the kitchen from his comfortable place on the couch. Alice won't be home for another hour or so, depending on traffic.

He sighs and closes his eyes. He'll just rest them for a little bit.

Only a little bit…

_“Only a little bit more.”_

_“But you said that the last time I asked, Grandma!” Little Quentin whines, though he keeps his eyes closed as requested._

_“That's because you keep asking every two minutes,” she replies. Quentin can hear her amusement coloring her tone._

_He inhales and feels a different kind of smell in the air. He'd say it smells like pine wood, if he knew what that meant at the time. It's also mixed in with something that smells fresh._

_“What's that smell?”_

_The hand on her shoulder steers him slightly left. He can hear water running in the background._

_“You'll like it, I promise,” is all she's willing to give away._

_A few moments later and just as Quentin is about to ask “are we there yet?” again, the soft hands on his shoulders grip him and make him stop._

_“We're here. You can open your eyes now.”_

_His blinks his eyes open and looks around. There's a tall tree in front of him. To their left, there's a small stream. Approaching it is a wounded deer._

_Quentin turns back quickly and tugs on his grandmother's velvety robe._

_“He's hurt! Can't we help him?”_

_Jane smiles kindly at her grandson and ruffles his soft brown hair._

_“We don’t need to. Just watch,” she tells him instead, pointing at the small deer._

_Quentin frowns at her but turns his curious gaze towards the scene unfolding on the opposite river bank. He watches as the poor little creature limps its way down to the stream and cautiously looks both ways before deeming it safe to let down its guard enough to quench its thirst._

_At first, it all seems normal and uneventful, and the young boy wonders once more why they’re not doing anything to help the poor wounded animal. Yet, soon enough the small deer lifts its head and Quentin watches dumbfounded as it puts down its previously limping leg down and breaks into a joyful run back into the dense forest._

_Jane laughs warmly at her grandson’s slacked jaw when he turns back to face her, a million questions reflecting on his confused face._

_“Wha- What was that? What just happened? Was he faking it?” His eyes grew big. “You know, I once watched this documentary with dad on TV and they said that some animals play dead so that their pr-pred-predators won’t go after them.”_

_She shakes her head, but the smile doesn’t leave her lips._

_“Not really. He really was hurt, the poor thing.”_

_The boy frowns harder at the comment._

_“But… then how…?”_

_“The water in that river is special. It has healing properties.”_

_His eyes sparkled._

_“Like magic?”_

_“Yes, a little bit like magic. It’s not like when my brothers and I do it. We use spells to turn that magic into something else, almost like we use electricity in our houses.”_

_“So using magic is like flipping switches?” he asks in that innocent way only children can get away with._

_She touches his cheek softly._

_“Oh, my sweet boy. What I’m trying to say here is that, much like the electricity that we have in our houses, inside our walls, which we use to get things from other objects, we also use magic like the one in this river to perform spells and move and create all sorts of things.”_

_He looks up at her, mouth slightly open, nodding along and taking it all in._

_“Now,” she continues, “I’m not sure if the little creature knew about it and that’s why it came down here or if it found its way here by chance. If it didn’t know before, however, I’m sure it has now learned that this water can help it in the future.”_

_A silence follows her musings and she finds her grandson frowning, fingertips tapping against pursed lips._

_“So,” he starts, finally breaking the silence after rearranging his thoughts to accommodate the new information, “if I ever fell down and scraped my knees, it’d make it all go away and I’d be as good as new again?”_

_“Yes, my Little Q.”_

_“And-and if I sprained my wrist or twist my ankle?”_

_“That too.”_

_“And what about--”_

_“Anything apart from death itself, I’d say. Though I reckon there’s not much out there that can help with that. We all reach the end of the line at some point, I’m afraid.”_

_Quentin looks up at her with a mix between confusion and sadness settling heavy on his forehead. She hits the pause on that thought and realizes that maybe that’s a bit too much for this poor child right now._

_“I wouldn’t worry too much about your future scraped knees, though. They should be safe.”_

_The sadness melts away from her grandson’s face, leaving only a concentrated expression. As the grandmother who’s already become accustomed to her grandson’s silences usually followed by a thousand different questions, Jane waits it out patiently._

_“Okay. So… I mean, what… what happens if it dries out one day?”_

_That gives her pause. It’s not something that has crossed her mind yet._

_“Don’t worry about it. Water is a renewable source, even the magic kind. And because it is a cycle, it means we won’t easily run out of it.”_

_“But what if it does, one day? Even if it’s too far from now?”_

_Jane pushes his hair back and away from his face while she takes some time to consider the unlikely scenario._

_“If that were to happen, I don’t think the lack of healing would be our biggest problem,” she admits quietly._

_She knows her grandson is getting ready to attack her with more follow-up questions, but she’s pretty done with this subject for now. She’d rather talk about happier things for the near future._

_“So,” she starts with a chirpier voice and hoping to steer the conversation to a different path, “you know how Uncle Rupert said he’d had this great idea for us to celebrate our own kind of winter holidays here in Fillory?”_

_It works like a charm. Quentin’s sparkle of excitement is back in his brown eyes and his whole face seems to glow with it._

_“Are you going to tell me what it is?” he asks, hopefully._

_She hums affirmatively in response, moving past him and closer to the pine tree standing by the stream of water, auspiciously illuminated by a beaming sunlight._

_Quentin follows her, paying careful attention not to trip over the wet, broken branches._

_“Is it magic?” he asks, finally reaching her side._

_“It will be,” she replies honestly._

_Jane touches the trunk and marvels at the potential she can feel pulsing inside of it. Quentin follows her lead and she watches as he tentatively reaches out to let his small hand touch the rough bark of the large tree._

_“Can you feel anything, Little Q?”_

_He scrunches up his nose._

_“It tickles,” he admits and pulls his fingers back, hiding his hand behind his back._

_Jane smiles fondly. Her son won’t like it, but she can already tell there’s definitely a small spark of something special inside her grandson._

_“This tree will bring happiness to so many people, my dear.”_

“Quentin.”

He startles awake, narrowly missing the coffee table as his legs stretch out in front of him.

“Careful!” Alice fusses, immediately reaching out to grab his arm before he accidentally propels himself out of the couch and face-first onto the floor.

When his feet are placed firmly on the ground again, he takes a deep breath and takes a moment to let his heartbeat return to its usual rhythm.

“Sorry. I really didn’t mean to scare you. I just got home and you were sleeping and I… I really tried to wake you up without,” she adds, gesturing between the couch and the coffee table.

“It’s okay. You know how much of a klutz I can be. Not even sleep can save me from that, I guess.”

She doesn’t say anything for a while, content in just observing as her boyfriend runs his hand through his messy slept-in hair and rearranges his clothing. When he’s done, he looks up and freezes upon noticing her stare.

“What?”

“Are you okay?”

He smiles and frowns uncertainly at her.

“Yeah, why?”

She shrugs and stands from the couch.

“Just asking. It looks like you were dreaming. Your hands were twitching.”

His heart stutters, but he pays no mind to it. Not right now, at least. He’s distracted by the growing headache.

“I guess? I don’t know. Maybe it was one of those moments where you wake up in the middle of a dream and forget all about it,” he lies through his teeth, but adds in a shrug to make it look less obvious.

Quentin isn’t entirely sure Alice notices anything, as she’s already moving back towards the kitchen to grab a glass of water.

“What do you say we order in? We could get some food from that Thai place we had for dinner a couple weeks ago.”

“Yeah,” he replies absentmindedly. He hears her calling the restaurant while he massages his temples.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” she asks again, having returned from the kitchen and handing him a glass of water as well.

“I think that nap messed me up a little bit. I got a bit of a headache.”

She runs her hand through his hair and caresses the back of his neck.

“I can get you something for you to take. It’ll even help you sleep better. But we have to wait for the food first.”

He sighs and lets her fingers bring him some peace.

“You’ll join me?”

The fingers pause.

“Later,” she replies. “I need to finish some work stuff before that. But you can go right ahead and I’ll meet you there as soon as I’m done.”

Quentin chokes his disappointment down, deep into the pit of his stomach, and tries not to think about how they keep missing each other, even though they’ve been living under the same roof for a few years now.

“Oh, I meant to ask… My father invited us to go to his place this weekend. I wanted to ask you if you’ll be done with your current case by Friday or not.”

She pulls away and it’s almost like Quentin can see the ground open up between them.

“I… I’m sorry. I’d love to go, it’s just-”

“It’s okay,” he immediately interrupts. “I understand.”

Her shoulders drop.

“Quentin…”

“I’m not mad or anything, I promise,” he assures her, “I’m just tired and…”

The doorbell rings. Alice throws him a sad remorseful look before walking away to get their food. In turn, Quentin drowns the remaining water in his glass and makes his way to the kitchen.

When they’re done with dinner, which was filled with simple conversation that veered very carefully away from what had just happened before or any of the secrets Quentin is keeping from Alice, Quentin excused himself with a kiss on his girlfriend’s forehead, purposely ignoring the wistful look on her face.

He took a quick shower and then slid into bed. It wasn’t until he let his eyes close that he let his mind wander again to weird dreams of magic rivers and tall, shiny trees.

* * *

Friday finally arrived and, as predicted, Alice didn’t manage to clear her schedule on time, so Quentin got into his car and drove all the way to his father’s house. Some random radio station kept him company, but he was barely paying any attention to it.

The dreams he kept having left lasting impressions. He kept thinking of his grandmother. How come he can’t seem to remember much about her, yet his father claims they were as thick as thieves?

He scratches the side of his head and thinks about it while stopped at a red light.

Did he really repress that much after his parents’ divorce? He doesn’t remember visiting her much. There are some vague flashes of something, but then there’s just…

Only her funeral.

Which -- in and of itself -- was one of the weirdest experiences of Quentin’s life. He’s never felt as heartbroken as when he saw that casket go down. How could he feel so bereft if he didn’t remember a single conversation he had with this particular human being?

He remembers how his father took him in his arms and held on tight. At the time, Quentin thought he was obviously seeking comfort. The man had just lost his mother.

But now… Now he was starting to think it was equal parts a request and an offer of a kind of solace. After all, if his father really thought they shared such a special bond, then he’d know that Quentin would take it quite hard.

The car behind him honks and Quentin looks up at the green light waiting for him to get a move on. He lifts his hand in an apology and drives away.

Moments later, he’s parking his car in front of his childhood home. By the time he’s locked his car, his father already awaits him at the door, an infectious beaming smile on his face.

“Curly Q!” his father exclaims, spreading his arms wide, ready to welcome his son with a warm hug.

Quentin chuckles and steps into the offered embrace. He’s never going to get rid of that nickname. It also makes him think of how similar, yet still different from the one the grandmother version in his dreams called him.

“No Alice?”

Quentin pulls back with a deep sigh.

“Dad… she tried, okay? She even left for work earlier today, but when I called her at lunch, she told me some things came up very last minute and they had to deal with it and take it to court. You know how it is.”

“I do,” his father replied in a steady tone. “I just want to make sure everything is okay with you. I mean that both in the singular and plural forms, by the way.”

“Why wouldn’t we be okay?”

His father shakes his head and offers him a small smile.

“Let’s get inside, shall we? Dinner’s almost ready.”

Two hours later, they’re sitting in front of the TV and Ted Coldwater brings up his mother again.

“You know, it’s funny you haven’t mentioned Fillory all these years. I swear I could barely get you to shut up about it when you were younger,” he comments.

Quentin shrugs. “Maybe it’s one of those things you end up growing out of.”

His father shakes his head. “Nah. Not this. I think it might just be that you got busy with other things and couldn’t re-read those books every other week, like you used to.”

His eyes widen. “I did?”

Ted nods. “In fact, I’m sure that having them in your hands again will awaken that old love of yours.”

Quentin watches as his father gets up and disappears for a minute or two, only to return with a dusty box. He puts it down on the couch, between them.

His father chuckles when he sees his son judge the dirty box delicately placed on such a clean couch.

“Don’t worry, Curly Q, it’s just dust. I can easily wipe it down afterwards. Go on,” he encourages, “open it.”

He raises an eyebrow at his dad.

“What? I’m curious to see if your eyes will go all wide and glittery again when you see them.”

Quentin rolls his eyes, but approaches the box, opening it slowly. Sure enough, there are a few books inside, as well as a few other small objects and a sealed letter with an elegant giant “Q” drawn on it.

“That’s from your grandmother,” his dad says, having noticed the way his gaze lingered on the off-white envelope inside the box. He continues, “She told me you’d ask me for these books one day. Only then should I hand you the letter. I’m going to be honest here and say I’d almost lost hope. But, as usual, your grandmother was right in the end. She was always so wise…”

Quentin lets his father get lost in his own memories and returns to the box. He reaches out and picks up the first book.

 _“Fillory and Further, Book One: The World in the Walls,”_ it reads.

His fingers immediately trace the golden Grandfather’s clock right in the middle of the dark green cover.

There’s something about that clock…

“Is it starting to ring any bells?” his father asks, watching as his son's fingers trace the golden foil over and over.

Quentin shrugs, putting the book down on the small table in front of the couch and admiring it.

“Yeah, but also not really? Kind of. It's all fuzzy. I think this clock was some sort of doorway, but I'm not entirely sure.”

He feels a kind of fondness for it, but he can't really elaborate on the feeling. It's just a deep set emotion, like meeting an old friend after years of not seeing each other and continue talking as if not a day has gone by apart.

When Quentin looks up at his silent father, he sees him looking at him with shiny eyes and a soft smile.

“It never grows old, you know? Seeing that awe being rekindled every time you pick up these books. You're older now, for sure, but the look in your eyes is the same, I promise you.”

Quentin feels somewhat awkward under his father's scrutiny. He reaches into the box again to retrieve the other books.

They all look worn and well-loved. It makes Quentin feel unsettled for a moment. How could he cast aside and completely forget something that had brought him so much joy in the past?

Once all the books are stacked on the table, he reaches inside once more to pick up the other objects. There's the sealed envelope and another small box.

He puts the letter down on top of the books and focuses on the small box.

When he first looks at it, it's upside down. He turns it around to see what's inside and almost drops it.

_There's a letter. Find the button first._

A chill runs down his spine.

“You know,” his father begins, completely oblivious to the turmoil twisting his son's insides, “I never knew what that was from, and your grandmother never told me, but she assured me it was related. Maybe it's a collector's item. I have to admit I'm not too well-versed on what this series was about or if it had a huge success out there.”

Quentin doesn't reply. He wouldn't even know what to say. He's just… it's a lot to take in. He needs to unpack the fact that those talking rabbits were right about all this. How is that even possible?

“I see you're dealing with some emotions there. I understand that it's probably a lot right now. It's been quite a few years since you last held these, and they were there for you during some tough times.”

He pauses and chances a quick look sideways at Quentin. Watching his father scratch the back of his neck and pushing down the feelings brought up by the memory of his divorce, Quentin notes how similar he is to his father when he becomes overwhelmed with emotion.

Another second passes and Theodore stands up and wipes at his pants.

“I'll leave you to it. It's getting late and we old people need to tuck in early, you know? Damn bones will get the best of me one day.”

That breaks through some of the spell on Quentin. He rolls his eyes at his father.

“You're not that old, dad. You're talking like you're 80 or something.”

“You know, age isn't just a number measured by how many years it's been since you came out of your mother's womb. You should also take in all the knowledge you acquire throughout your daily life. And as a really wise man-”

“You're going to bed to get some rest after being so especially wise today.”

His father laughs. “You're a smart-ass, you know that?”

They share a smile. Theodore pats his son on the shoulder and wishes him a good night before retiring to his bedroom.

Quentin looks down at the small box in his hand and decides to get some sleep himself. Curiosity was gnawing at his gut, but it was probably better to deal with all of this when he's back home.

He'll let himself enjoy his father's company for the weekend instead.

* * *

There's some repressed energy pulsating through his body. It was a long drive back to his apartment and he was shaking with anticipation. He'd had to throw the button back in the box with the books currently sitting in his trunk or he'd never resist the urge to reach out and inspect it carefully before even leaving his dad's driveway.

Now that his car is safely parked in his spot, Quentin can barely keep from running out of the car to get to it.

He pulls the keys out of the ignition and fumbles when his trembling fingers make him drop them on the floor.

“Get your shit together, Quentin,” he mumbles to himself as he crouches down to retrieve them.

He makes his way to the back of the car and opens the trunk. There it is. The box with children's fantasy books he remembers nothing about, even though his father said it used to be his favorite thing in the whole wide world.

He removes it from the car and makes sure to lock it before walking towards his apartment building, box in his arms.

The same questions that have been plaguing his mind all weekend come to the forefront again. How can something have been so life-changing to you if you don't even remember it a few years down the line? And how weird is it that he remembers nothing about it? No character names, no fun twists, no peculiar places or scenes…

Well, now, that's not entirely true.

 _FilloryFilloryFillory_ seems to echo endlessly in his mind as he ascends in the elevator, unconsciously cradling the box even closer to his body.

“Only one way to find out,” he grunts, shifting the box so it's perched on his hip, allowing him to use his other hand to unlock his front door.

“Alice?” he calls out as soon as the door slips closed behind him.

Quentin puts the box down on the coffee table and forces himself to go check the other rooms to make sure he's alone. When he finds no one else in the apartment, he finally sits down on the couch facing the old dusty box.

He picks up the books first. He opens the first one, waiting for some spark of recognition, even going so far as to read the first chapter, but things are still as fuzzy and unclear as before.

When he mindlessly flips through the pages, an envelope falls out. He freezes.

Putting the book down carefully, he picks up the faded paper and turns it one way and another, looking for any clue of what to do.

He now has a closed envelope with a large and squiggly _Q_ on it, a box with old fantasy books he doesn’t remember anything about and a button that – if he believes the talking animals – will help him save the magical land of said books.

“What did that one bunny say, anyway?” he wonders out loud.

_There's a letter. Find the button first._

“The button first. Okay.”

He slips the envelope into his shirt’s breast pocket and goes back to rummaging through the box until he finds the small hexagonal box at the bottom of it.

Once again, he brings it close to his face to study it carefully. There doesn't seem to be anything extraordinary about it. It's just a small button.

“It doesn't even sparkle or anything. What's so special about you?”

Quentin lifts the tiny lid and looks for any instructions. What should he even do with this thing? Maybe there's something hidden under the velvet pillowing the button.

“Well, here goes nothing,” he whispers and lets out a sigh before reaching out to pick up the white and seemingly ordinary button.

However, the moment he touches it, he feels himself being sucked down a black hole.

When he comes to, he is landing hard in the middle of a dirt road.

“Move!” he hears someone yell.

And, sure enough, when he turns to look at where the voice came from, he barely has any time to react. There’s a huge dark blur galloping his way. He panics and rolls out of the way just in time, falling down a ditch and straight into big green bushes.

“Ouch,” he yelps half-heartedly, trying to keep his face away from the pointy branches.

“Was that the elusive Cozy Horse we just saw almost run that poor guy over?” he hears another voice, feminine this time around, casually comment, as if it’s just another Tuesday afternoon to have some random guy materialize out of thin air in the middle of a dirt road.

He stretches his neck to try and find the people who seem to now be engaged in an argument over this horse. Well, they said “horse”, but Quentin only saw a random beast on the path to murder.

There’s a branch poking him in the back and another pulling on his shirt. He looks down at the ruined shirt.

“Oh man, I know a certain blond someone who would be extremely disappointed to have missed that.”

He hears fast steps coming towards him. It takes a few seconds, but there’s finally a person coming his way now, carefully making his way down the ditch and trying not to fall so disastrously like Quentin has just demonstrated.

His face heats up with embarrassment when the other man comes close enough for Quentin to see his face and pristine clothes. He fumbles a little and ends up even more twisted up among the branches and leaves.

“Hey, hey,” the stranger’s cautious voice freezes him. Quentin watches as he crouches down in front of him, a candid and friendly smile on his face. “Let me help you.”

He reaches out and slowly plucks the branches from his shirt and the stray leaves from his hair.

“Did he successfully become one with that bush? I don’t think I ever saw anyone put that much effort into it,” he hears that same feminine voice coming from the side of the road.

The handsome stranger laughs and turns back to face her. “He sure tried, Bambi, but I’m afraid the plant didn’t really consent and he lost the battle. Offer us a hand?”

She lets out a loud laugh in response.

“As if I’m going all the way down there with these heels. You know me better than that, El.”

He looks over the stranger’s shoulder to see her. Of course she’s just as magnificent as the male specimen in front of him. Is everyone in this damn place young and beautiful?

Speaking of…

“Where… Where am I?”

The stranger – El? – finally leans back, his job apparently done, and stands up. He offers Quentin a hand. Any other time and Quentin wouldn’t let his pride take a blow like that, but his brain still feels like scrambled eggs.

He takes the hand – _soft and sure_ – and lets himself be pulled up. The lean stranger is quite tall. He almost loses his balance, quickly reaching out with a hand and grabbing the other man’s upper arm. Instinctively, the other man’s hand curls around his hip and stops Quentin from topple forward.

Quentin stands there for a long moment just looking up at his kind hazel eyes. He must have stared for longer than he thought – or was remotely deemed appropriate – because the other man’s lips curl upwards, not unkindly but definitely leering, and Quentin looks away.

“Sorry,” Quentin mumbles, hastily removing his hand from the other man’s arm.

“How hard did you hit your head, kid? Do you even know what day it is?” asks the woman from above them.

“You’re in Fillory,” the taller man replies at last. He takes a step back, removing his hand from Quentin as well, though not before he assures himself that Quentin can stand on his own.

“A better question would be how the hell you got here,” he continues. “You don’t dress like the locals and any sane person wouldn’t randomly lie down in the middle of the road.”

Sane person. Right. Let’s pretend that didn’t hit Quentin like a scorching arrow aimed straight at his deepest insecurities.

He takes another step back, increasing the distance between them.

“Yeah, because it’s totally sane to almost be run over by some kind of impossible beast. We’re totally sane here!”

The other guy frowns at him and lifts his hands in a peaceful gesture.

“Ok, _Alice_. This isn’t your kind of Wonderland.”

Before he can reply, another set of footsteps can be heard running down the road and making their way to him. He looks up and is startled to find a familiar face.

“Q?” comes the equally surprised voice of his old best friend.

“Julia? What… I… what are you doing here? What is all this?”

If nothing made any sense before, now it’s all even murkier. Standing there is his old childhood friend who he hasn’t seen in years. She dropped off the map a few years ago and Quentin lost all contact with her.

The tall and thin man is now gesturing at him to climb up the ditch and back to the side of the road. Quentin gets the hint and moves ahead, huffing when he walks past him.

Julia reaches down as he’s getting closer to the top. She grabs his hand and pulls hard. As soon as he’s standing on his own two feet, she engulfs him in a tight hug.

“Q, oh my god, I’ve missed you so much,” she murmurs against his shoulder, squeezing him harder.

“Oh,” he replies, taken aback, but hugging her back just as hard. “I thought you’d forgotten about me, actually.”

She pulls back and frowns at him.

“What? You’re… you’re my best friend, Quentin.”

“I mean, yeah, we were inseparable when we were younger, but then you went to Yale and I never heard from you again.”

Her eyebrows rise and her mouth opens slightly in realization. Quentin watches as she looks at her two companions and they both seem to offer some kind of understanding in their soft gazes.

A small fire starts to spread through his insides. He’s the one who was left behind. She moved on to bigger and better things and he was left hanging, starting over at a new place, filled with new faces, no more safety net.

 _“I am the angel protecting your future, Coldwater,”_ she had once said.

“Quentin…” Julia starts, but before she can go any further, another man appears out of nowhere.

It startles him so much that Quentin stumbles back and the tall man rushes to grab him before he falls down the ditch again. He knows he should be thankful, but he’s stressed and confused and…

Quentin tears himself away from the man’s hands, sending him a dirty and distrustful look. In response, he only shrugs at Quentin, shaking his head and walking to stand beside the other woman he’d called Bambi before.

“Okay. This… Can someone _please_ tell me what the _hell_ is going on here?”

“And who is this?” the darker-skinned man asks, pointing at Quentin with an obvious unimpressed expression.

“That’s Quentin, apparently,” Bambi says.

Please, _please_ let that not be a real name. He doesn’t know how much more he can take after talking bunnies, impossibly big dark horses and random apparitions.

“ _The_ Quentin?” the guy asks, eyebrows raised. He looks at Julia for confirmation. “That flailing excuse of a human being right there? _That’s_ Quentin?” He’s back to looking wholly unimpressed and Quentin feels like he should be offended by that.

“Ok, hold on. How do you know who I am?” Quentin asks, confusion and frustration returning. “I have no idea who you guys even are or where the hell I am.”

The newest addition to the gang suddenly drops his arms by his sides in defeat and turns to his friends.

“Seriously. Why didn’t you start off with the basics? Has any one of you even check him for magic?”

Quentin splutters at that. “Magic?”

The other man silently judges his friends before turning on Quentin again.

“Are you a Magician?”

“I’m an accountant.”

It becomes clear quite fast that that’s not even in the spectrum of possible acceptable answers when the guy throws his arms in the air and walks away.

The taller man approaches with a placating smile. It doesn’t reassure Quentin one bit. He straightens his shoulders and crosses his arms and the other man stops.

“He means Magician with a capital letter. Not those cheap tricks everyone with access to shady free Wi-Fi can look up how to do. We’re talking real magic here.”

There’s a long pause. Quentin touches his head carefully and looks back at the unfamiliar woman.

“Maybe you’re right and I did really hit my head hard when I fell.”

“Q,” Julia starts again. Her hand falls on his arm and spins him around towards her. “I’m not sure how to start here in order for you to believe what I’m saying, but there’s a reason I didn’t call you after we last saw each other.”

She turns towards her companions. “Can you guys give us some room?”

Quentin looks around him, his breathing picking up speed.

“Hey,” Julia starts, approaching him carefully. “You’re okay.”

“Am I?” he asks in a rather hysterical and confused tone. “I don’t know where we are, you tell me you disappeared from my life… for some reason, and you’re surrounded by strangers who all seem to think ‘magic’ is a perfectly good answer to any question I may ask.”

She looks down, clasping her hands in front of her.

“Listen, this is going to sound insane, so it’s best to just pull the band-aid off in one go. I met those people,” she explains, pointing at the group of people behind her, doing a poor job of not looking like they’re listening in on everything, “in this amazing place in New York. You wouldn’t know it, because it’s hidden from the regular public.”

Great. So Quentin was now a regular person in a world that’s apparently abundant in magic. That’s great on the self-esteem, for sure.

“There’s this place called Brakebills University for Magical Pedagogy, or simply Brakebills as we all call it. They do an admission test to see if we have any potential. If you pass it, an older student will show you the ropes – I got Margo,” she says, pointing at the other woman before continuing, “and you’ll get the chance to hone in on your powers. They’ll teach you all the different spells and the literature that goes with it. You also learn different languages for all those spells.”

Quentin is trying very hard to keep up.

“So… like Hogwarts? Except for adults,” he says, trying to simplify it all in his head.

“Yes!” She beams. “That’s it! We even have different magical categories, so we kind of get ‘sorted’ as well.”

He nods slowly for a long time and she worries he’s not taking it as well as it seems. She sighs.

“You don’t believe me.”

Quentin looks up and frowns.

“I think it’s not that I believe you, it’s that I don’t believe this whole thing,” he admits, gesturing around him, “is actually happening. I’ve had a really weird few days, Jules. There were talking rabbits to begin with, then my dad tells me there’s a bunch of books collecting dust in his attic that used to be my favorite thing as a kid, even though I don’t remember a single thing about them, then there’s this whole thing with my grandmother leaving me some sort of magical button to–”

He freezes.

“Oh God, the button!”

He runs towards the place where he’d magically appeared earlier, frantically looking around. Seeing all the commotion, the others approach with questioning frowns on their faces.

“What’s going on?” Quentin hears one of the guys ask.

“I-I don’t know. He was talking too fast and then mentioned a button and freaked out,” he hears Julia explain.

“Uh. Is this what you’re looking for?”

Quentin spins around so fast it took his brain a second to focus on the little box in the taller man’s hand. He runs so fast towards him he almost trips on his way there.

“Whoa there, Lightning McQueen!”

The guy closes his hand around the box and hides it behind his back, his other hand reaching out to stop Quentin from slamming into him.

“Give it back!” Quentin yells at him. This is his one ticket home. He can’t afford to lose it.

“I will, if you calm the fuck down and explain what’s so special about this.”

It’s infuriating how calmly he talks to Quentin, knowing he’s pressing all the wrong buttons and getting a kick out of it. He takes a deep breath.

“Please, don’t break it,” he pleads, feeling completely drained by everything going on in his life.

The tall man appears to have some semblance of a heart and brings the box back between them. Now that Quentin has his eyes back on that precious little box, he relaxes.

“Why should I tell you anything? I don’t even know you. And I used to know Jules many years ago. I have no idea who she is now.”

He throws a look at his old friend, who is now looking down and biting her lip. The darker-skinned man throws an arm around her shoulders and sends Quentin a nasty look in response.

“Well, that’s something we can easily fix,” the tall man in front of him says, still turning the button box in his hands, as if trying to uncover the mystery all on his own. Then he pauses and extends a hand.

“I’m Eliot,” he declares, gazing expectantly at Quentin.

Oh, right. He places his hand in the other man’s to give it a firm shake.

“Quentin. But I guess you already know that now.”

Eliot smiles softly at him.

“Oh, come on, El,” the other woman – Margo, Jules had said – says, rolling her eyes at him. “This is so not the time for that.”

Eliot shrugs and points at her.

“That’s Margo. Don’t be fooled by her appearance. She can cook up a storm all by herself.”

Quentin squinted at her, trying to connect all the dots.

“So… you guys are older than us.” He pointed between himself and Julia.

“Careful there, puppy,” Margo says, hands on her hips now.

“She’s the one who showed me around Brakebills, yes,” Julia clarifies. “She was a year above us, and she was in Eliot’s class. Penny here,” she says and gestures at the man standing beside her, still throwing daggers at Quentin, “he was in my class.”

“Ok, ok. Uh. Eliot,” he points at the tall beaming man in front of him, still twirling the small box with the button in his hands, who nods at him in response. “Margo and Penny.”

Margo waves with an amused smile while Penny nods curtly.

“Now that we know each other's names now, care to explain what this is?” Eliot asks, holding the small box between his thumb and index finger and turning it from side to side.

Quentin's heart wants to beat right out of his chest. He bites his lip to try to get his nerves under control.

“I’m still working that out. I, uh, I touched it and… was dropped here, as you saw.”

Eliot considers him, eyes narrowing, but then his clouded expression vanishes and he shrugs with a friendly smile.

“We traveled here, too,” Julia confesses. “Something is keeping us from going back, though.”

Panic rises again inside Quentin's chest. Oh no. What if he's stuck now, too? And what if they take the button for themselves and leave him behind?

His old best friend must have seen it in his eyes, because she is quick to reassure him.

“Don't worry. We think it's a magic thing. It won't let us leave until we do… whatever it is it wants us to do. I mean, I don't know if that applies to you as well, now that you're here, but we won't take away your only hope of going back home.”

He throws an obvious glance at Eliot, who is still gazing at the encased button. Quentin looks back at Julia with a raised eyebrow.

She doesn't seem worried. She shrugs and pushes Eliot lightly, who huffs in response.

“Don't worry, he's always like this. He'll give it back.”

The group starts moving and Quentin can't help but gravitate closer to Eliot, closer to the button he so desperately wants back.

“Where are we going, then?” he asks to break the silence that settles over the group.

It's Margo who replies this time around. “We're feeling for little changes in the magic around us. We're trying to figure out what's keeping us here, why, and how the hell we can go back.”

Quentin nods.

“So what is this about magic, then? Do you guys have wands and cauldrons?” he asks before he can stop himself.

Eliot laughs and hands him the button, throwing an arm around Quentin’s shoulders and pulling him close.

“You really are a super nerd, aren’t you? Our very own Harry Potter.”

Quentin slips the box into his jeans pocket. He’s not going to let it out of his sight again.

“I don’t mean to back you into a corner here, but it takes one to know one,” he answers back thoughtlessly.

Quentin removes the arm from around his shoulders and pushes Eliot away. And so what if he pushes him harder than he needed to in the hopes that Eliot would stumble and make a fool of himself? It’s not like it works, anyway. The guy is as gracious as a cat and barely missteps before righting himself and throwing an amused, yet calculating look at Quentin.

“Oh, burn, Waugh!” Penny snickers ahead of them, looking over his shoulder to throw a winning smile Eliot’s way.

“You know,” Margo takes over, “if we were back on Earth, I’m sure someone would have found us and stopped us from telling a Muggle like you about magic.”

Quentin blinked.

“So, you’re all nerds just like me, except you hide it better.”

Margo winked at him before resuming her explanation.

“You don’t apply to this college. They find you, lure you in with some kind of excuse, and you take a test that you either pass or fail. As simple as that.”

“What happens when you fail?”

“They wipe your memory,” Penny fills it in for him.

Now Quentin does stumble. He also throws Eliot a dirty look when he reaches out to steady him. Quentin is fine, thank you very much.

“Wh-what?”

“Yup. So this is why we don’t just go around telling people. Either you’re in and have proved your worth or you shouldn’t even know about it.”

He stops at once, a chilling thought finding its way to the forefront of his mind.

“Are you… will you wipe my memory?”

The others all stop to look at him, but only Penny laughs and steps closer.

“I guess that will depend on if you pass the test or not.”

His panic-stricken eyes find the others’. Margo chuckles and tilts her head and Julia shrugs. Eliot assesses him carefully, eyes squinting and his index finger tapping against his lips.

Quentin’s locked shoulders don’t relax at the overwhelmingly supportive reaction from his peers. In fact, they tense up even more as Quentin watches Eliot approach him again.

“Show us a magic trick, Quentin,” he requests in an even tone, even if his twinkling eyes betray just how much fun he’s having with all of this.

Quentin’s fingers curl into a fist in response and his fear slowly shifts into anger. Why are they playing him like this?

“Stop it,” he says through gritted teeth.

“It’s not that hard, Quentin. Just,” he starts, having a hand carelessly, “do something. Anything.”

Quentin watches as the fallen leaves around him start to levitate around them in calm swirling patterns that match the fluid movements of Eliot’s wrist.

He rolls his eyes and turns to leave, slapping flying leaves out of his way.

“You know what? You wanna show off and then wipe all my memories, feel free, but don’t play with me like I’m fucking prey to you.”

Strong deft fingers curl around his upper arm and pull him back. Furious, he twirls around to give Eliot a piece of his mind. He moves so fast he loses balance momentarily and his hands find purchase on the other’s chest.

He immediately pulls back with an angry huff, ready to let out some honest words. However, he finds that Eliot is frozen in place, which is weird because he’s not even looking at him. He’s looking behind and around them.

Quentin follows his gaze and watches the leaves circling them with purpose now. He feels like he and Eliot are stuck inside the eye of the storm.

“Stop it,” he demands.

Eliot laughs. He _laughs_. The gall of the guy!

The wind around them seems to pick up speed and Quentin’s rage festers.

“I said _stop it_!”

“It’s not me. That’s all you, nerd boy,” he replies instead.

And that makes absolutely no sense. Except it also does a little, because the moment Quentin lets go of his anger and looks at the mess around him in confusion, the leaves all stop in their storming flurry and fall to the ground.

Seconds later, his knees feel weak, there are arms circling his waist and everything goes black.

* * *

_Quentin sits, frozen, looking at the floating toy in front of him. His mouth hangs open and his small hand is outstretched below it. He stares as it wobbles sometimes but remains airborne._

_His eyes almost go dry because he’s so afraid that blinking will ruin whatever spell is giving life to the toy._

_Eventually, he can’t fight it anymore and blinks before he can stop himself. His fingers spasm in reflex._

_A sudden fear rushes through his veins, but it is quickly replaced by immense awe as the small toy spins quietly in front of him._

_He beams and leaps to his feet, the toy floating higher in front of him._

_He needs to show this to his dad and his grandma._

_As he rushes down out of his room and into the main hallway, arm reaching backwards as if pulling on an invisible string to pull the toy along, Quentin still throws looks over his shoulder to make sure the toy is there._

_He follows the sound of his dad to the living room, but the conversation he hears stops him on his bare feet before he can cross the threshold._

_“It’s all new, mom. I don’t know if things will remain as they are for much longer.”_

_He feels the toy float down until it settled onto his outstretched palm. His fingers close around it as his interest in magic dims._

_“What makes you say that, dear?” he hears his grandmother ask softly._

_“I think his mother showed him around the city and where she’ll be living. It’s a much more exciting place than this could ever be.” Quentin watches from his place crouched by the door as his father gestures all around the room._

_“Theodore, I don’t think that’s really what matters the most to our little Quentin,” his grandmother tries to comfort him._

_He sees his father shake his head with a sardonic smile on his face. There’s a coldness spreading from Quentin’s chest. What is his dad saying? Does he want Quentin to go live with his mother instead?_

_“He keeps talking about this fantasy land where people are happy and how he wants to live there,” his father continues._

_“Yes, but I want to live there with you, dad,” he murmurs to himself, wiping away a tear and clutching his toy closer to his chest. “I want you to be happy too.”_

_His grandmother tuts._

_“That’s typical child stuff, Theodore. He’ll grow out of it eventually, and once he does, he’ll want to live with you. Quentin isn’t the sort of child to be distracted by bigger and shinier things. Deep down he knows what truly matters.”_

_Quentin watches his grandmother approach her son and throw an arm around him._

_“I can’t lose him. He’s everything I’ve got,” his father sobs quietly into his mother’s shoulder._

_“You won’t, my dear. I promise you that.”_

_Quentin pitter-patters back to his room, being mindful to close the door lightly behind him. The toy drops to the floor. He makes for his pillow instead and buries his teary face in it._

_He’ll never talk about Fillory again if it’ll keep his father from sending him away to live with his mother instead._

* * *

Penny’s fuzzy voice is what Quentin hears first.

“I don’t know why you think this is helping us at all.”

“He’s got magic, dumbass,” Margo bites back. “We can’t just leave him lying around when he doesn’t even know what he’s capable of. Scared he’ll be a natural who turns out to be more powerful than you?”

“Fuck you,” he hears Penny bite back before there's an angry shuffle of feet.

A quiet chuckle follows, from much closer to Quentin this time. He feels the soft touch of fingers on his forearm.

“That's Penny for you,” Eliot comments, and Quentin isn't sure who he's talking to until he continues. “Can you open your eyes?”

With some effort, he follows Eliot's request. His head is pounding, but Quentin is sure it's not due to the first touches of light after the complete darkness that engulfed him.

“There we go. How are you feeling?”

“Like I was run over by a truck,” he croaks.

Quentin looks around him and finds Eliot kneeling beside him, Margo a few steps behind, arms crossed and still looking somewhere behind him, where Quentin guesses Penny retreated to.

He clears his throat before speaking again.

“What happened?”

It's Margo who replies this time around.

“You're a wizard, Harry. Congrats. Sorry we don't really have time to kumbaya this shit as we're trying to find our way back to our real lives outside of this weird place.”

“Bambi,” comes Eliot's warning yet soft tone. He then turns to Quentin. “I guess you've repressed your magic for so long that now that you finally found a way to release it, it overwhelmed you. I never heard of someone passing out from their first spell.”

Quentin frowns. “Magic? Spell? What are you talking about?”

He watches Eliot's fingers move quickly through some sort of pattern and then there are leaves and flowers dancing around him, caressing his cheeks lightly.

Quentin scoots back, brain swimming in a muddy mess of thoughts and memories.

“Wh-How are… How is that even possible?”

Eliot's lips break into a wide amused grin.

“Magic,” he whispers.

Suddenly, all the flying leaves drop to the floor.

“Stop flirting,” Margo interrupts. “We've got more important things to focus on.”

“Spoilsport,” Eliot grumbles before getting up and reaching down to help Quentin get to his feet.

He's still confused about everything that's going on, and this magic thing… did he really hit his head that hard?

“It's not possible,” he mutters to himself as he follows the others, who are now bickering about which way they should go.

Quentin looks up when a stray leaf dances in front of him in ways that don't seem natural, considering there's barely any wind at all.

He looks up and watches Eliot looking over his shoulder with a small smirk on his face. Quentin slaps the leaf away, but it returns to bump against his nose before flying away.

He ignores Eliot's amused chuckle and tries not to trip on the uneven forest ground.

“We should train the newbie.”

Quentin's mood sours when Penny laughs.

“And what good would that accomplish? What would we even do with someone who has a few cheap tricks up his sleeve and can't even control his magic?”

Julia turns to him with an offended expression on her face and Quentin's insides warm up a little for seeing his old best friend act like that on his behalf.

"That is _exactly_ why we should train him. You know he didn't just randomly fall in front of us, right? I'm sure there's something to it.”

Penny turns around and rolls his eyes at her, continuing to walk backwards. The asshole can do that even better than Quentin and he hates him so much.

“Not everything has some deeper meaning, Julia. He found something shiny, messed with it without thinking of the possible consequences like the dumbass that he is–”

“Hey! I'm right here.”

“–and then happened to end up in Fillory. So he's somehow managed to stay out of Brakebills's radar. Maybe he even did the test and failed.”

Eliot chuckles.

“If he had failed, at most, he'd create a tiny spark or something. I don't know if you were paying attention, but he created a small hurricane of leaves. That's not something Brakebills casually lets go of.”

He stops and waits for Quentin to reach his side. When he does, he throws an arm around his shoulders. Quentin shrinks a little, not used to so much personal contact with strangers.

“I'll teach him some basics. He's definitely a physical kid and I've had my share of showing the ropes to the first years.”

Penny snorts.

“Who all seem to have tripped their way to your bed in the end.”

Quentin pulls away at that. Eliot lets out a put out sigh.

“You're scaring him. And making me sound like a predator. It's only fun when everyone is willing.”

He turns to Quentin, expression softening, as if he's talking to a child he doesn't want to scare into crying.

“Don't listen to him. I'm an excellent magician and I can teach you to control your magic.”

“It's true,” Julia chimes in from a little further ahead. “I mean, he can get quite a big head about it, but he is one of the best there is, so you'd be in good hands.”

Quentin eyes Eliot skeptically. He's balancing on the edge of some sort of mental breakdown. The weird dreams and this strange land and its power… It's all overwhelming and Quentin is barely hanging on.

However, maybe controlling this new side of him he never knew existed will bring some balance to the mess that is his life at the moment.

He sighs and nods, “What… how do I even…?”

He gestures around, unsure.

Eliot looks around them, a pensive look on his face.

“We should find a secluded area first, away from all sorts of distractions. It won’t be something that’ll always come easy to you in the beginning, but we’ll work on that.”

He gives Quentin a patient look, his raised eyebrow the only hint he's waiting on anything resembling a response. Quentin nods again, letting himself be led away from the rest of the group. They are all following them with their eyes, but Julia adds a smile and two thumbs up to hers. It shouldn't hold any weight to Quentin's decision at all but the truth is that he feels somewhat safer, like there is still someone in his corner in this strange place.

The vegetation grows thicker the farther they walk into the woods. It doesn't seem to make any room for them, so Quentin frowns when Eliot stops and declares that to be the perfect spot.

“I thought it'd be… roomier,” Quentin comments before he can stop himself.

Eliot sends him a one-sided smile.

“We want to practice moving things, Quentin. It does us no good to pick a place where there's nothing to move.”

And so Quentin decides to shut his stupid mouth before he digs his own hole even deeper.

Moments later, Quentin stands, frustrated and feeling like Eliot will burst out laughing at any moment, pointing at him and exclaiming that there's no such thing as magic.

It never happens. Quite the contrary, actually.

“You need to let go,” is what Eliot says instead in a calm and steady tone.

“Let go of what, exactly?” Quentin bursts in a fit of frustration and – if he's true to himself – disappointment.

“Can't we just admit that it was a fluke and that Penny guy was probably just pranking us all when no one was looking?”

Eliot rolls his eyes and steps forward, grabbing Quentin's restless wrists and forcing them to stop spinning madly around as he talks and gestures.

“He wouldn't bother with such silly things. He can be an asshole at times, but he doesn't care enough to meddle like that. Especially when we're all so high-strung, trying to find our way out of this place.”

Quentin deflates somewhat. It doesn't change the fact that whatever he did before with the leaves won't be happening again anytime soon.

“Maybe I've used up all the magic I had.”

Seems like a good enough theory to him, but Eliot shakes his head.

“That's not how magic works.”

“Then how _does_ it work?”

The other man shrugs and mumbles something Quentin doesn't quite catch. Then his fingers slip lower and hold onto Quentin's, slowly lifting them until they're eye-level.

“You have power, otherwise you wouldn't have cooked up a little storm like that out of thin air. We just need to coax it out of you and teach you how to use it to your will. But, for that to happen, you need to fucking relax, Q.”

Quentin's heart rate spikes at that and he's glad Eliot's fingers are nowhere near his wrists. That single letter reminds him of what he keeps being called in his dreams…

He blinks and Eliot's hands have moved to his shoulders without him even noticing. In fact, the man himself is now standing halfway behind him.

“Come on. Let it go. Don’t even think too hard about it. You just want to make these brown leaves levitate. Follow along,” he says as he takes a step sideways and slowly starts to move his fingers in precise movements, looking up at Quentin after an especially complicated-looking finger slide.

Quentin takes a deep breath to mentally prepare for this. It’s okay. He won’t worry about it. It’s not like he’ll actually do anything.

He copies Eliot’s movements, focusing on where his fingers should go. He’s so laser-focused on that task that he doesn’t even notice anything changing until Eliot seems to pause mid-tutting.

Quentin stops as well and looks up at Eliot. The other man, however, is looking around them with a small bright smile on his face.

“Look, Q.”

He gestures around them and Quentin follows his gaze. There are a few dozen leaves twirling in place. The whole thing seems so magical and Quentin realizes that it _is_.

The sunlight hits the dew on one of the red leaves and it seems to shine as bright as a crystal.

It hits Quentin so hard that he stumbles back, his breathing accelerating and his mind rushing to catch up with the onslaught of images coming to his head.

There is that tall white tree, so unique and new, yet so familiar. There’s the sound of laughter echoing in his ears. There’s the heavy weight of a crystal on his hand.

“Q?”

He looks back at Eliot, who is sporting a concerned look as he steps closer to Quentin and tries to grab his forearm.

Quentin raises his arms and pretends he doesn’t see how bad his hands are shaking.

“You’re looking quite pale. Do you think you might pass out again?”

Again, Eliot tries to step closer, but Quentin takes two quick steps back, panic starting to overflow.

What is this? What is happening? Magic is real and he can do it? And what’s with the weird visions?

“Don’t–” he lets out, half pleading, half commanding. Eliot stops, though.

“It’s okay. We can help you master this. No need to panic.”

Quentin shakes his head. “You don’t understand. I can’t– This isn’t– I’m not–”

Then he remembers the little button. He frantically reaches for it and watches as Eliot’s eyes grow wide with realization.

“Quentin, no!”

But it’s too late for him to reach out again. Quentin has pressed the button and moments later falls onto his bed, back on Earth.

* * *

The following days are a mess.

Quentin can’t think straight. He’s working on auto-pilot and he’s glad there isn’t anything urgent at work that he would get in trouble for. So far, nothing has slipped and he hasn’t made any mistakes, but he’s so numb to it all that he’s not sure he won’t fuck up at any moment now.

His colleagues have noticed a change in him. He doesn’t know if they’re attuned to how hyper aware he is of their concerned stares or how they keep asking him if he wants to go out for a smoke during their breaks.

Don’t they know he doesn’t really open up to people like that?

And what would he even tell them? _Sorry, I’m just having a mental breakdown because apparently I can do magic, there’s talking bunnies sending me messages, a bunch of people stuck in a magical land trying to find their way back here, oh, and there’s also the weird dreams that feel a lot like memories he doesn’t remember ever happening?_

That certainly wouldn’t go down well.

He’s also been walking on eggshells around Alice. He’s afraid that one look at him will alert her to what’s going on inside his head.

Quentin has been grabbing and hiding bunnies for the past three days, shoving him inside unused cupboards, and closing his eyes and praying that they vanish quickly after.

The last one he’d gotten had fallen on top of his keyboard only a couple of hours ago.

_“We need help. Please.”_

He rubs at his face and then decides it’s time to finally peek inside the drawer he’d shoved it in. There’s nothing there anymore, so he closes it. He sighs and leans back on his office chair.

Sometimes he wishes he didn’t feel things; that he didn’t care about others and their problems. He still doesn’t understand what’s going on, but this peer pressure from whomever is sending him these messages is finally getting to him and making him crack up.

Quentin takes the button box from his jeans pocket. He raises it at eye level and considers it.

It’s a losing game. He already knows what he’ll end up doing, so there’s no use fighting against it.

He shakes his head at himself, pockets the little box again and focuses on his computer screen for the remaining hours of work for today.

* * *

Later that night, he arrives at the apartment and calls out for his girlfriend. There’s no answer, which is both a relief and a heavier weight on his conscious. He was hoping he’d get at least an excuse to postpone this whole thing, but it seems today’s not his lucky day.

He puts his things down, grabs his messenger back, throws a couple of things he may need inside it and reaches for the small magical box.

When Quentin touches the button again, he’s already become accustomed to the warping feeling of travelling to a parallel world. Or… well, at least he assumes it’s a parallel world because, as far as he knows, there aren’t any kind of talking animals where he comes from.

However, magic seems to work on Earth, too, and the bunnies _do_ cross over to deliver messages, so… what are even the rules here?

He falls through whatever physical or metaphorical tunnel to return to Fillory against his better instincts and ponders on all that’s happened since he first found out about its existence.

The moment the air pressure changes and Quentin tries to find his bearings, he trips over his own feet and almost falls flat on his face.

He straightens himself and wipes down at his clothes. When he bends down to pick up his messenger bag, he hears giggling behind him. Turning around at the sound, he finds a young woman trying to hide her laughing mouth and turning a guilty – yet slightly amused – face away from Quentin.

“Hey,” he mumbles, breaking the ice and feeling embarrassed for being caught in the middle of his usual clumsiness.

“Hello,” she replies politely. “You’re one of them, aren’t you?”

“One of whom?” he questions, not really sure where she’s going with this.

“The Children of Earth, of course. You’re obviously not from here,” she expands, gesturing at his clothes.

He looks down at himself. Part of him feels like he should be offended because of the tone she used, but then again... He looks at the way he’s dressed in jeans, a long-sleeved dark henley and boots, and then compares to her simple plain clothes and the flowers in her hair. Yeah, when you compare the two, it’s easy to tell that he’s not from around here.

“I mean, I don’t know about the way you capitalized the title there, but I do come from Earth.”

She beams and Quentin marvels at the beautiful friendly smile on her equally pretty face.

“Oh, that’s such great news! You should come with me and meet my dad.”

Quentin’s brain stutters to a halt at that.

“What? I… uh, I mean, you seem like a really nice girl and all, but–”

She’s frowning at him, but then it hits her and she interrupts him, a darkening blush taking over her soft pale cheeks.

“No! No, no. Nothing like that. We barely even know each other. I mean you should meet him because he’s looking for Children of Earth to test and, as a male Child of Earth, you qualify.”

“To test?” he asks, gripping the strap of his messenger bag. He keeps getting more and more lost in anything related to this damned land.

She doesn’t seem to be able to put his mind to rest much, however, and she shrugs in response, twirling the stem of the flower she’s just picked up.

“He explains it better than I ever could, but it’s something to do with finding the next High King of Fillory.”

“The next King?” There’s a swirling mixture of confusion and hope inside his chest now. “Aren’t there any more descendants?”

“Des-what?” she asks, putting the collected flower in her basket, next to other colorful sets of plants and some fruits.

“Didn’t the last King have children who can rule the land or something?” he clarifies.

She shook her head. “He didn’t have children, but even if he did, that wouldn’t mean anything. They wouldn’t automatically be granted the power to rule. That’s not how things work here in Fillory. Right now, we’re waiting on the right Child of Earth to take his rightful place at the throne.”

“How will you know who the right person is?” He frowns. “And how do you even know it will be a man?”

She shrugs again and bends down to pick another flower.

“Well, there’s the prophecy. There’s also my father’s test, of course.”

“You keep talking about this test, but you’ve yet to give me any hints about what it actually involves. What test is this?”

“My father makes knives for a living. One day, many years ago, the Watcherwoman approached him and told him she was there to deliver a prophecy. She gave him a special gem and told him to use it when making his next knife. When he forged the blade and assembled it all, it glowed and hasn’t been able to cut through anything ever since.”

“A knife that doesn’t cut anything? How’s that anything good?”

She isn’t deterred by Quentin’s questions. She keeps going.

“According to the hooded woman, the dagger he assembled will only spill the blood of the future High King of Fillory.”

“That specific, huh?” he interrupts, voice dripping with sarcasm, still too skeptic of the whole story.

She tilts her head and squints at him as if he just asked a stupid question.

“Of course! Otherwise, how would we know?”

So, okay, Fillorians aren’t familiar with the concept of sarcasm. Duly noted.

“Okay,” he tries again, considering the whole thing for the time being. “How will you keep it from getting out of hand, though? If this blade can spill his blood, couldn’t it be used to kill him as well?”

She chuckles. “Why would anyone go through all the trouble of getting this very specific knife to kill someone you don’t even know the identity of when they could kill him in a variety of other, simpler ways?”

Quentin purses his lips. “Hmm. Point taken. So,” he pauses and winces slightly. “Sorry, we just had a whole conversation about Fillorian politics and magical prophecies, and I still don’t know your name.”

The woman smiles kindly and approaches him, reaching out with a hand.

“My name is Fen. Pleased to make your acquaintance…”

“Quentin,” he says, taking her hand and giving it a small shake. Fen, however, doesn’t let go of his hand.

“Well, Quentin, if you would be so kind as to accompany me to see my dad,” she starts, gesturing with her other hand towards the path where she has just come from. “We can quickly test you to see if you’re our next High King or if we should just keep looking.”

She mumbles under her breath about not losing another one and pulls Quentin along. He tries to pull his hand away from her grip to no avail.

“Straight to the point and no time to waste… I mean, we know each other’s names now, so I’m sure that’s enough for me to feel completely at ease with a stranger pulling me into a path of dense vegetation, leading to an even denser, darker and humid track cutting through the forest,” he jokes, but Fen only responds with furrowed eyebrows and an uncertain smile.

“Yeah, sure,” he says, resigned to not get his hand back anytime soon. “Let’s go and not waste any more of our time.”

So that’s how Quentin Coldwater finds himself following a stranger in a completely foreign land in a parallel universe, knowing he’s about to come face to face with a “special knife”.

* * *

She takes him to a small cottage surrounded by trees. Right outside of it, Quentin can make out a middle-aged man at work.

“Dad!” Fen calls out excitedly.

The man looks up from the metal he was forging, and after lifting a hand for a small wave at his daughter, his eyes stray to Quentin. He puts down the material.

“I found another Child of Earth. You should test him.”

She pushes Quentin forward. He pulls away from her, hands raised in a defensive gesture, eyeing the two Fillorians with caution.

“Easy, now… You haven’t told me yet how you’re going to test me without killing me. I mean. This involves some sort of special knife and some bleeding, and-and I… uh, I don’t really know or trust you.”

The older man wipes his hands on an old rag and approaches Quentin carefully. He stops a few steps away when he sees Quentin grow tenser by the second and extends his hand slowly for a handshake.

Quentin hesitates. After all, the man’s daughter had done the same to him and didn’t let go until a minute or so ago. He takes a deep breath and puts his trembling hand forward, shaking the other man’s more calloused hand.

“Have I met you before?” the man asks, breaking through layers of distrust and fear in Quentin’s mind.

Now, there’s a question he wasn’t expecting to be asked here, of all places. The only other people he’s met in this land are the Magicians from whom he kind of ran, and even those came from Earth as well and could have crossed paths with him there before.

“Wh-what?” he stutters.

The man lets go of his hand and takes a step back to assess him once more. After squinting at him for a moment longer, he speaks again.

“Your face looks familiar. Do you have any family here?”

“Uh… I, uh, I don’t think so?” he phrases it as a question, feeling even more confused and unsure of what else to say.

“Hmm,” is all the man mumbles in response, but his head tilts to the side for a few seconds longer, obviously still not entirely sure that Quentin is telling him the truth.

Why would Quentin even lie about that?

“I’ve only ever been to this land once, and the people I met during my first trip here came in a group. They were all about my own age, so I really don’t think we’ve crossed paths before, no,” he assures – or at least tries to.

Nonetheless, what he says seems to pique the Fillorian’s interest.

“What group? You mean other Children of Earth who have found their own way to our land as well?”

Quentin gulps and scratches the side of his head, wondering if he’s making a mistake here by disclosing all of this.

“Yeah.” He decides on the truth in the end. “They mentioned you, actually. I … at least I think it was you. They didn’t seem to be such great fans of unknown men who follow them around while brandishing knives. Even if they are special or magical.”

The other man’s shoulders slump and his eyes roll in resignation.

“I wasn’t going to hurt them! I only wanted to see if one of the young men in the group was going to turn out to be our future High King. I would have explained everything to them if only they’d given me the chance to do so.”

He shakes his head and does half a turn before turning to Quentin again.

“Instead, they all started running away from me like headless chickens, as if I was some wild animal out to get them. Then they all held hands and,” he pauses and gets this confused faraway look on his face. “They were gone. Vanished into thin air.”

“Oh, he did something similar!” Fen exclaims, pointing at Quentin. He’d forgotten she was still there.

“When I was walking to the old town, he showed up out of nowhere as well. Do you think it’s an Earth thing, dad?”

The man shakes his head. “No. I think it’s a magic thing.”

His daughter frowns at that.

“Humans can do magic? I thought only magical creatures could gather the power from the Wellspring.”

Quentin stands there, looking between the two of them, trying to connect all the dots and failing miserably. Magical creatures? Wellspring? Power?

“Don’t you remember our old Kings and Queens, my dear?” The older man continues, attracting Quentin’s attention again. “The Children of Earth all have abilities we don’t possess. That’s probably why they are allowed to rule our land and we are not.”

“Wait, wait,” Quentin interrupts. “Come again? Your Kings and Queens have always been people from Earth?”

“As far as I know,” the man admits with a shrug.

“But you’re looking for your next King, aren’t you?”

He pulls out the knife from his apron’s pocket and Quentin immediately takes an instinctive step back. The Fillorian man notices and pulls the knife closer to himself, trying to show Quentin that he’s harmless.

“We are, yes. Hence the testing.”

“Okay, but then… who’s ruling the land at the moment?”

“Tick Pickwick is. He’s the Leader of the High Council, but since our last ruler passed away, he took over until we find our new High King. Once that happens, he’ll resume his position as an advisor to the King in Whitespire.”

“That’s the royal Castle,” adds Fen after seeing the look of puzzlement on Quentin’s face.

He merely nods in acknowledgment.

“So, this prophecy you mentioned…”

“Right,” the other man declares, putting the knife away again for the time being. “Things aren’t working exactly as they should, here in Fillory. There used to be a yearly tradition that would… how can I put it? It was something we all looked forward to.”

“Like Christmas?”

“Like what?” Fen asks, and Quentin can see from both the Fillorians’ faces that that’s not a concept they’re familiar with either.

“I don’t know what that is, but we call ours The White Night. See, living here isn’t always nice and easy. There are other Kingdoms around us and their leaders are Fillorians who are ceaselessly thirsty for power and land. They all want to rule over the whole thing, instead of only their little corners.”

“So, Fillory…”

“It’s both the name of the whole land as well as one of its Kingdoms, yes.”

Quentin thinks about the bunnies, the letter his grandmother left him, even the recent knowledge that he can make magic if he wants (and is properly taught how to do). He thinks of the books inside the box he left back at his apartment.

_FilloryFilloryFilloryFilloryFillory_

“Loria,” he whispers, not even quite sure of what he’s saying.

“What did you just say?” the man questions, a wide-eyed frozen look on his face.

“I… I don’t know. It… it came to me.”

A lightbulb seems to go off in the other man’s head. His whole face relaxed into a more subtle surprised look.

“Could it be you are the one who…?”

But the man doesn’t say anything else, and Quentin’s creeping anxiety starts to circle and enclose on him.

“The one who what?”

“Please allow me to test you so I can make sure.” Quentin opens his mouth, but the man continues before he can make a noise. “I promise I will tell you everything afterwards. Let’s just get through this first.”

Quentin feels his fingers start to get numb, but he pushes through. He needs to get this over with before he has a panic attack. He nods, trying his best to keep it all at bay.

“Give me your hand, please. I promise I won’t hurt you.”

He extends a trembling hand and closes his eyes. He can’t look at it. Not when it feels like his heart is going to beat right out of his chest.

Seconds later, he feels the cold polished surface drag against the skin of the palm of his hand. It doesn’t feel like a sharpened knife, though, more like a small butter knife without serrated teeth.

He opens his eyes and frowns at his clean, unharmed skin.

“It didn’t work.”

Quentin looks up at the Fillorian man who is putting away the knife again.

“As I expected.”

Quentin swallows and takes a deep shaky breath.

“Okay, you have a lot to explain. I’m done with people being all cryptic about everything. It’s time I start to get some answers.”

He watches as the other man nods solemnly.

“Let’s go inside and talk over some leaf infusions.”

Once they’re all settled, Fen standing on a corner of the room, looking just as lost as Quentin feels, the older Fillorian takes a seat in front of Quentin and pushes a warm mug towards him.

“This will help you calm the nerves, Master Quentin.”

Master Quentin. Isn’t that what the bunny had called him? Or, well, whoever sent him that message?

The fruity aroma coming off the mug sounds appealing, and the warmth seeping from its clay walls into Quentin’s cold and numb skin is already making him feel better. Still, he’s also taking deep steady breaths, just like his therapist advised him.

“Why do you think you know me?” he asks suddenly, and he’s not even sure why he started there, of all the questions whirling in his tired and overwhelmed mind.

The other man takes a sip of the steaming hot mug, but it doesn’t seem to bother him in the slightest. Quentin, however, can’t help but wince slightly and blow some more on his own drink before daring to put his lips on the rim.

“The prophecy isn’t only about the future High King.”

The man seems to be giving Quentin some time to let that sink in.

“Okay… So… There’s the destined High King, which the pretty knife will slice and make bleed. What else could there possibly be?”

“The prophecy tells us that the High King will come to save us and give us back the joy we so desperately crave.”

“I’m sensing a ‘but’.”

The Fillorian nods. “It won’t be enough. Dark times will follow the coronation and the High King will only be able to save its people with the help of the Watcherwoman’s grandson.”

Quentin frowns. “I’m not sure this is making a lot of sense to me just yet. Who’s this Watcherwoman?”

Fen finally approaches the table and sits down next to her father, cradling her own mug.

“She’s said to have great powers. She controlled time, they say.”

“And how does any of this relate to me?” he asks, bringing the mug to his lips again.

“I think you’re her grandson,” declares the older man, making Quentin almost drop the mug to the table.

“What?”

He’s pretty sure he’s yelling now, but his ears seem to be ringing suddenly, flashes of a dark hood and tall colorful walls.

“You have a really familiar face–”

Quentin stands up abruptly. The chair falls down behind him and his hosts get up just as fast, worried faces.

“No way. No. This is not happening.”

“Master Quentin–”

“Don’t!” he yells, putting out his hand as the other man rounds the table and tries to approach him.

“Quentin, I think you should sit down. You’re looking awfully pale,” Fen tells him, her tone soft and… blurry?

The room starts spinning.

“This is not good. Shit. This is not…”

The Fillorians finally make their way to him and grab him on either side, helping him move towards the couch.

“Here,” he barely hears the man say. “You should probably rest.”

Those are the last words he hears right before his head falls on a soft pillow and the world goes dark.

_…and then there are sparkling lights making their way down from the sky._

_He blinks and more of the lights show up. The background bursts in color, replacing the blackness that overtook him._

_There are children running around. There’s a big white tree. There are people with big smiles on their faces and arms extended, reaching out for the sparkling lights._

_Lights that Quentin now sees are actually small crystals._

_There’s a warm hand on his shoulder. Quentin can feel its weight as he breathes in._

_He looks up and behind him. A red-haired woman is smiling down at him._

_His grandmother._

_“See, Little Q? We came up with that. We wanted people to feel joy. We didn’t want to let it all end in wars and deaths like it always does back home.”_

_He blinks at her. Another hand falls on the opposite shoulder. He turns and sees his Uncle Rupert._

_“We didn’t have to do much, really. Only have to get some energy flowing into the tree. It does all the rest. The crystals have magic in them. It’s not everlasting, but it will bring some peace to troubled minds and hearts, and people will rest easier for a while.”_

_“It brings them together in a greater sense of community. They eat and dance and talk all night long, clutching those crystals. And there’s always enough for everyone, so no one will feel left out. That’s the great thing about magic.”_

_“So there will be one for me this year, even though I was never here for it before?”_

_Rupert taps him on the nose._

_“Of course there will be. It will be the most beautiful one, and it will be just what your troubled little heart needs, my dear Q,” he says, his hand falling on Quentin’s chest and giving him a sad knowing smile._

_He looks back at the crystals now starting to fall into the open palms of the Fillorians gathering around the tall tree._

_“Go get yours,” his grandmother says, giving him a small push in the direction of the tree._

_He hesitates, but ends up being pulled along with the other children, laughing and singing, all raising an arm and waiting for their salvation to come._

_Quentin feels self-conscious, but even then, just like his grandmother and great-uncle told him, a crystal eventually finds its way to his open palm. He closes his fingers around him instinctively, afraid of letting it fall._

_He brings his fist closer to his stomach and looks down. He uncurls his fingers slowly and watches the blueish rock give off a soft glow. It’s followed by a warmth tickling his fingers, making his way up his arms. It feels weird, but not unwelcome._

_He looks back at his family, heads tilted together and lost in hushed conversation. They don’t look as happy as before and it worries Quentin. Only for a moment, though, because he can feel the glow spread inside of him and a heavy weight lift from his chest._

_Quentin runs back to them. There are smiles on their faces again, but, deep inside, a thought that will soon dissolve in his mind reminds him that they don’t look right._

_He walks into his grandmother’s embrace._

_“Let me see it?”_

_He opens his fist to reveal the small blue rock to his grandmother._

_“Can I keep it?” he whispers, afraid that voicing this wish will make the magic go away._

_“Of course you can,” she whispers right back. “You can keep it forever. It will always be there to remind you that we all care about you, even if we’re not always with you.”_

_Quentin pulls back and frowns at her. She smiles and rubs away the creases on his forehead._

_“Don’t worry, Little Q. It’ll all be alright, I promise. You will understand when you’re older.”_

Quentin startles awake and gives himself a scare when Fen jumps from the armchair next to the couch.

“You’re okay,” she states, followed by a relieved sigh. “You really scared us for a moment there.”

He closes his eyes and buries his face in his hands.

“Oh my God. I think I’m gonna be sick.”

“Oh, oh. Please mind the rug. Can you get up? Maybe going outside will help you feel better.”

He can feel her hoovering and fidgeting around him, even if he can’t see her.

He gathers all his strength and carefully puts his feet back on the floor. With her help, he gets up from the couch and makes his way outside. She leads him to a wooden bench and helps him sit.

“I’ll get you some water, okay? I’ll be back in a second.”

She rushes back inside and looks down at his left hand. He looks at his palm and can almost swear he can feel the weight of a crystal there. The happiness flowing through his veins. He doesn’t know what happens next, but he remembers how it probably didn’t hurt as much as it should have when he watched his mother put the last suitcase in the trunk of her car and drive away.

The headache starts to pound against his skull.

Quentin lets himself slide a bit further down on the bench so he can lean his head on the back of it. He closes his eyes and lets all the air in his lungs out before taking a deep breath. Rinse and repeat.

“Crap!” he hears in the distance. “Look!”

“Q?”

He perks up at that, opening his eyes and looking towards the trees on his right. Soon enough, he sees the group of magicians rushing towards him.

Eliot reaches him first, most likely due to his longer strides, Quentin muses.

“Eliot?”

“Hey,” he says softly, a hand already reaching out to curl around his forearm. He takes a seat next to him, not saying anything else for now.

“Where did you go? We looked for you for weeks!”

Quentin looks past Eliot and there’s Julia, looking down at him worriedly.

“I…”

Before he can try to explain – what, he is still not sure – Fen comes through the door and stops dead in her tracks.

So do all the other Magicians.

“Who are you and what have you done to Quentin?” Julia demands, her worry replaced by burning anger.

“I didn’t do anything to him, and this is my father’s property. You have no right being here. I suggest you leave him alone and walk away.”

“Not a chance, sister,” Eliot pipes in.

Quentin chances a look back at him and sees the defiance sparkling in his eyes. He didn’t expect the other man to stand up for him.

He needs to get this all under control before everyone loses their temper. He sits up.

“Guys,” he starts, leaning on the armrest of the bench to stand up again, his head still a bit fuzzy. Eliot assists him from the other side.

“It’s okay. I know all of you. None of you have hurt me, so it’s all okay.”

Fen composes herself first and squints at them.

“You’re… Dad!”

The others all start looking around, waiting for whatever she’s just unleashed on them. The middle-aged man walks through the threshold and stops when he sees the people gathered outside his house.

“Oh, shit, that’s him!” Penny exclaims, pointing at the man.

“Q, we gotta get out of here. That man is dangerous,” Eliot says, pulling on Quentin’s arm.

“No, wait,” he says, and, surprisingly, Eliot stops. “I’ve met him. We talked. I… I actually think you guys, uh, you should listen to what he has to say.”

“Dude,” Penny starts, turning on Quentin, “are you insane?”

Eliot shakes his head. He lets go of Quentin and takes a small step back, an over-the-top horrified look on his face. “They’ve brainwashed him.”

Margo rolls her eyes. “Don’t be dramatic, El. Let’s hear what the puppy has to say.”

Quentin frowns at first, but then shrugs it off. At least she seems to be on his side.

“Okay, good. Thank you. So this guy doesn’t really want to hurt you.”

“He has a knife,” Penny points out.

“Very astute observation. Thank you for that input,” Quentin says drily. “He does have a knife, but he only wants to test out the men of the group. Turns out they’re looking for their destined new King and he's supposed to come from Earth.” He showed them his open palm. “He tested me. I wasn’t it. As you can see, no blood, no cut, nothing. It’s fine, guys.”

Penny squints at him and crosses his arms. Eliot, on the other hand, seems to put some actual thought into it.

“We’ll do it,” he declares.

Penny sputters. “Wha-Dude! Since when do you get to decide for everyone?”

Julia touches his arm and he visibly deflates.

“If this is the fastest way to get this guy off our backs, don’t you want to just get it over with?”

He lets out a dramatic sigh, but steps forward and opens his hand.

“Ok, go for it.”

The Fillorian grabs the dagger from his pocket again. Quentin can almost hear the collective gasp and gulp that follows.

The blade slides across Penny’s skin the same way it did Quentin’s. Nothing happens.

“Sorry,” the man says.

Penny pulls his arm back.

“Nah, dude. I wouldn’t want that weight on my shoulders.”

Eliot chuckles next to Quentin. He sees him roll up his sleeve before stepping forward and offering his hand, much like Penny had.

“Yeah, okay. We do this and then you leave us alone.”

The Knifemaker approaches him and Quentin watches how everything seems to move in slow-motion.

The blade slides against Eliot’s skin in a smooth way, much it did with the other two men. However, this time around it draws blood as it slices his skin.

Eliot winces, Quentin’s jaw drops, and the man and his daughter immediately fall to their knees.

“Our Majesty.”

Quentin’s eyes find Eliot’s and there’s a sliver of panic in them now.

“Oh, fuck.”

The Knifemaker beams with happiness.

“Oh, this is such an honor… to have you both here standing right in front of me,” he exclaims while pointing at both Quentin and Eliot.

Eliot frowns and looks at Quentin.

“What is he talking about?”

Quentin shakes his head. He’s so not ready to be the one to break this to the other man. They’ll all think he’s crazy. He waves it away and looks down, crossing his arms.

“The prophecy, of course!” The older man exclaims. “You two are destined to work together!”

Quentin looks away from the sudden attention he’s receiving from the group. He feels scared and embarrassed. This old man is spewing all this nonsense about prophecies and Kings, and how is Quentin supposed to help the new King to save this whole land. The others will have a field day with this.

Besides, if it _is_ true, there is no way Quentin can help anyone to save themselves from whatever threat is coming their way. In all honesty, he can barely save himself most times when the thoughts that plague his mind start suffocating him and throw him on a dark spin. How the hell is he going to bring these people any peace?

Surreptitiously, he leans back against the armrest of the bench and quietly fights against a dizzy spell brought on by his anxiety.

“Oh, we are?” Eliot continues in response to what the Fillorian man has just told him. “I mean, I had a feeling we would get along pretty well, but I’m glad there’s an actual prophecy out there that proves it,” he jokes, elbowing Quentin lightly.

It doesn’t help with the queasy feeling in his stomach. He clenches his eyes closed and swallows drily.

“Is everything a joke to you?” Quentin barks back, letting his bottled up hurricane of emotions roll into a big ball of frustration and unleashing it on Eliot.

The man in question turns to him, clearly taken aback by Quentin’s outburst.

“No…” he starts calmly, aware of how much like a ticking time-bomb Quentin feels like at the moment. “In fact, I was being quite serious. I still think we could make a great team, if only you stop spitting fire every five seconds for no good reason.”

Quentin opens his eyes and stares at him, judging the veracity of his words. Eliot’s eyes find his. The taller man takes a deep breath and exhales, shoulders dropping in resignation.

“I want us to get along, Q. You’re the one being difficult and I can’t figure out why or what to do to make it stop,” he whispers between them, and Quentin would like to think no one else heard that and save himself the embarrassment of being judged by the others over this conversation.

Eliot sounds so sincere and he makes such a good point there that Quentin starts to feel bad for lashing out on him. He sits down on the arm rest with a sigh.

Thankfully, Eliot’s attention turns back to the Fillorian man, giving Quentin another moment to himself.

“Tell me about this prophecy, then,” he asks the older man.

Quentin tunes them all out. He’s heard this before and nothing will change his mind about the fact that it’s either all fake or he’ll get them all in trouble due to his inability to do anything right.

He could have all the best intentions – and of course he wants to help people, if there’s anything he can do about it – but he knows that all the pressure and expectations will get the best of him. He’ll panic and freeze when they need him the most.

“So,” he hears Eliot speak again after patiently listening to the knife maker explain everything. “This guy right here,” he points at Quentin, “will help me save the land and its people, but, first, I need to prove myself and become the official High King?”

Oh, wait, that’s news to Quentin!

“Prove yourself?” he asks Eliot, who nods absentmindedly.

“This man was just telling us we have to get to Coronation Island – and of course they would pick such a simple on-the-nose name for it,” he elaborates in a dull tone, “then we have to find the Knight of Crowns and let him test me to decide if I then move on to being crowned or if they should start looking for a better candidate to become their new King.”

That sounds… strangely _familiar_ to Quentin. Isn’t that what happened to the Chatwins in the Fillory and Further books?

“There were four Kings and Queens,” he remarks out loud, not giving it too much thought.

“Yes!” the Knifemaker’s attention turns back to Quentin. “They were all brothers and sisters,” the man concludes, nodding at him.

“The Chatwins,” Julia whispers, astonished.

“How do you even know all that?” Penny asks.

Quentin can barely grasp any of it or why it all seems to start making sense to him right now, like remembering the lyrics of a really old song you haven’t heard since you were a kid, sitting in the backseat of your parents’ car on a summer afternoon, with the windows down and sing along over the sound of the wind.

“It’s from the books,” Julia exclaims excitedly, sprinting to grab a still shell-shocked Quentin by the arms. “They’re real!”

He shakes his head, feeling like a glass filled to the rim and about to slosh water all over the place.

“It can’t be,” he mumbles incredulously. “They’re fictional. There’s a castle and magic and all these great things… no way that could possibly be real and no one found their way there all these years.”

“We have now! It must be real. Everything checks up. Look around you,” she says and prompts him to get up and look at the vast greatness surrounding them. There’s magic in the air and it’s weird that he can feel it. She points further down beyond the trees. “And look, there’s the castle!”

She lets go of Quentin, who sways on his feet for a moment, and turns to the Fillorian natives.

“Rupert and-and Martin and–”

“Jane Chatwin,” Quentin adds like it’s the most obvious missing piece slotting into place. His breathing quickens up and his brain slowly turns to mush again.

The Knifemaker turns soft eyes on him. “The Watcherwoman, yes.”

“The what now? Care to explain what the hell is going on here?” Margo bursts through, interrupting the singular most spectacular moment in Quentin and Julia’s lives, not pleased to be on the outside of it all, for once.

“The Fillory and Further books. Didn’t you read those when you were younger? They were almost as famous as the Harry Potter books back then,” Julia explains, eyes sparkling and a pleased almost childlike smile still etched on her face.

Margo shrugs feigning indifference but it’s obvious she’s finally connecting the dots and even she looks impressed.

“I may have. It doesn’t mean I remember all the details.”

“So, wait,” Penny interjects, “we’ve been in this place for weeks now and none of you thought that maybe this was the actual place mentioned in those old kids’ books or whatever?” He lets his arms fall to his sides with a dramatic sigh and rolls his eyes. “I’m surrounded by idiots.”

“Hey!” Eliot exclaims in a put-out and almost insulted tone. “I guess that means you won’t be the second King to sit with me and the girls on our new shiny throne. Once we find it, that is…”

He then turns his playful smile on Quentin, whose fingers have turned a bit numb at the tips.

“I guess there’s only you left. What do you say to being a King, Coldwater?”

_‘My favorite Coldwater…’_

Quentin isn’t too sure of what he thinks of anything at all at the moment. His headache has steadily grown to the point where it feels like his head will crack open. At the same time, it’s as if there are small creatures rearranging every thought and feeling inside his head, trying to map it all out.

Nothing makes sense, yet it all fits, somehow.

“Uncle Rupert,” he murmurs as an afterthought. He has no idea where it came from.

“You two did get along like two peas in a pod. He adored you.”

The Fillorian man speaks, but Quentin is drowning in white noise.

“Father,” Fen finally speaks up. Quentin chances a glance her way and sees the frown on her forehead. “What are you talking about?”

“I told you, my dear. I think this is the Watcherwoman’s grandson. He’s our last chance to bring back the White Night and give this land hope again.”

The dizzy feeling returns, too many dots trying to connect themselves inside his mind and Quentin reaches back with a shaking hand to grab the bench behind him.

“You’re a Chatwin?” Julia questions, taken by surprise.

“I’m a Coldwater,” he states firmly, trying to get back some control, even if his tongue sits like led on his mouth.

He ignores the light sense of wrongness swirling in the pit of his stomach. He knows what his identity card says, but what did his grandmother’s say?

“Quentin.”

His name is spoken with some sense of urgency, even if it’s dissolving in the air around them. He follows the sound of the frail voice and finds both Eliot and Julia standing much closer than before.

The trees behind them are losing some of their color and the skies are fading. Hands grab him and lower him back onto the bench.

“He’s starting to look a lot like before,” Fen’s voice is melting into the background as well.

“What do you mean, _before_?”

Quentin can’t tell that voice apart anymore. His eyelids feel like the weighty waves dragging back into the ocean. His body, however, feels incredibly light.

He dreams.

* * *

_Quentin yawns, feeling incredibly exhausted all of a sudden. Had he run around that much?_

_He grips his crystal tight in his hand and shoves his fist deep inside his pants’ pocket. He’s so scared he might accidentally let go of it and lose it forever._

_When he looks up, he sees all the other Fillorians looking down at theirs with sparkling eyes, clutching their small piece of magic as hard as Quentin is._

_He allows his fingers to release the small rock inside his pocket when he sees his grandmother making her way towards him._

_“Is it time to go?” he asks his grandmother when she approaches and pulls him to the side._

_“I’m afraid so, my dear.”_

_She smiles at him, but it’s that same sad smile from before. She puts her hands on his shoulders and steers him inside the castle and away from the bursting happiness outside._

_Quentin throws one last look over his shoulder at the laughing children running around the white tree and how the adults join in on the fun, singing and chasing the small ones around the clearing._

_The door closes behind him. As they walk down the corridor, he looks out the castle windows. The sky isn’t even dark yet._

_“Can’t we stay until nightfall? I really wanted to see the stars before we went back.”_

_His eyelids close of their own volition. He forcefully blinks his eyes wide open. His grandmother gives him a sympathetic look, but he can see traces of amusement underneath._

_“I don’t think you’ll stay awake for much longer, Little Q.”_

_He frowns, gripping her coat to keep himself upright when his left foot lands awkwardly on the floor._

_“I’ll make the effort! I’ll hold my eyelids open if I need to.”_

_Jane chuckles._

_“My dear boy… it’s okay. It’s been a long day and you’re dealing with the aftermath of some overwhelming emotions. Also, it was your first White Night, so it’s no wonder you’re tired and sleepy now. You can come back later and watch the stars. For now, I think it’s better to go home so you can sleep off all this excess emotion.”_

_He nods, resigned, and can’t help but let out a betraying yawn._

_His grandmother grabs his hand as they walk into her study in the castle. She reaches into her pocket with the other hand and pulls out a small box with a white button on its inside._

_The tug on the bottom of his stomach only makes him sleepier instead of queasy this time around._

_“Let’s get you changed into your pajamas and then we’ll get you in bed.”_

_Quentin feels like his whole system is on autopilot as he gets ready for bed. By the time he realizes that the softness he feels are the bed covers his grandmother is pulling over him, he can’t even remember changing his clothes or removing his shoes in the first place._

_Once he’s tucked in, Jane dims the lights._

_“Sweet dreams, Little Q,” he hears her say, and that sad tone is back in her voice._

_“Grandma?” he tries, but he can barely focus on words anymore. He’s so tired…_

_“I’m sorry, dear.” He feels her lips touch his forehead._

_“What for?” he barely mumbles. His tongue is starting to go numb._

_He blinks and manages to keep his eyes open just a sliver and sees the silhouette of his grandmother wiping away a tear. She beams down at him when her eyes find his barely opened ones._

_“I love you so much, Little Q.”_

_‘I love you, too, Grandma,’ he wants to say, but his mind finally shuts down before he can and every thought simply vanishes from his mind._

* * *

He bolts upright and fights against the lightness that overtakes him. It feels like his heart is trying to leap out of his chest and his lungs are working overtime to make up for spending an eternity underwater.

A hand closes around his wrist and Quentin jumps away on instinct.

“Sorry,” Eliot says quickly. He looks haunted. “How are you feeling? You blacked out on us again and it’s making me worry a lot.”

“Ugh,” is the best Quentin can manage for now.

He rubs away at his eyes and then pushes his hair away from his face. When he looks at Eliot again, he’s fiddling awkwardly with his rings. He must feel Quentin’s gaze on him, because he looks up a moment later and gives Quentin a fleeting smile.

“Should I… Do you want me to get Julia? She should be just–”

“No,” Quentin replies quietly but firmly. “Overwhelmed,” he adds as a simple explanation.

“Okay,” Eliot replies and sits back again, leaning against the back of the old grandma chair he placed next to the couch Quentin is lying on. “That makes sense, I guess.”

Quentin falls back slowly. His eyes find the ceiling of the knife maker’s cottage in a chilling sense of déjà vu. He lets out a deep sigh.

“What’s happening to me?” he wonders out loud.

The chair next to him screeches a little when Eliot moves, but Quentin’s eyes don’t move from the spot in the ceiling that they’re locked on.

“Your life is being turned around by fate or destiny or whatever you may wish to call it. And, apparently, we need to work together to save this land and its people, so no pressure there.”

Eliot’s booted heel connects with Quentin’s shin softly.

“You better not die on me and leave me to deal with all of this on my own. I don’t do well with this kind of responsibility on my shoulders.”

He speaks so fast that Quentin finally turns to look at him. It’s clear from Eliot’s wide open eyes that Quentin isn’t the only one panicking over the whole prophecy thing being thrown at their feet out of the blue.

Quentin gathers whatever’s left of his inner strength and sits back up to face Eliot.

“I think I’m starting to remember things,” he confides.

Eliot’s eyes shift to look at him, but Quentin keeps his face down still.

“What sort of things?”

Quentin shrugs and focuses on the ring Eliot is twirling over and over.

“Things about this land. I… I don’t know what’s happening, exactly, but I think I’ve been here before.”

Eliot slides down his chair a little to face Quentin at eye level.

“Yeah, the old man outside keeps saying you’re the grandson of the infamous Watcherwoman. You think she was Jane Chatwin?”

Quentin fiddles with the blanket someone had thrown over him.

“I think so, yes. I… I didn’t really… I think it didn’t really make sense to me that I had a grandmother who lived in a secret magic land, but these memories… I think that man is right. If she really was from Earth and had magical powers, it may explain why I didn’t remember anything until I finally got here. Maybe being back here unlocked it somehow, I don’t know.”

He shrugs again and looks down. Eliot’s hand reaches for his only seconds after to curl around his and squeeze comfortingly. This time, Quentin doesn’t flinch away.

“I’ll be honest and say I don’t remember much from the story, I was never a big reader.”

That surprises Quentin. He looks back up so fast he can almost feel the bones in his neck knock back into place.

“You read the Fillory books?”

Eliot brushes it away in a similar manner to Margo’s earlier.

“Irrelevant detail. Anyway, do you have any idea what we’re fighting against here? Was there any hint of problems coming up? Any spoilers for upcoming sequels?”

Quentin shakes his head and gets up. Eliot follows immediately, reaching out with a hand in case Quentin needs help to steady himself.

“Can you get me a glass of water?”

Eliot snorts. “You know, _I_ am the High King here. I should be the one getting people doing things for me, not the other way around.”

Quentin follows him into the rustic kitchen and watches as he opens various cupboards looking for any glasses or cups.

“I don’t think you realize how much you’ll be working for the good of these people once you get that crown. Besides,” he adds, leaning forward against the kitchen table, “didn’t you say I could get the extra royal position?”

That gets a chuckle out of Eliot as he hands Quentin a ceramic cup filled with water.

“For my King,” he says, knowing exactly the reaction he’ll get out of Quentin, who totally looks down and cradles the cup closer to himself, uselessly trying to fight off the blush taking over his cheeks.

“Anyway, don’t we need to get you crowned before you get to hand off titles like that?”

Eliot rounds the table, arm circling Quentin’s waist. Quentin sips at his cup and ignores the thrilling chill. He cautiously pulls away under the pretense of walking outside.

“Better put the others’ minds to rest, tell them I’m alive and they’ve got nothing to worry about.”

He hears Eliot’s defeated sigh behind him, but the man follows him outside regardless.

Everyone looks happy to know he’s back on his feet – even Penny, who seems to have realized Quentin knows more about this place than he originally thought, so it’s better to keep him close and well.

Later, they’re all sitting around a fire started with a combination of expertise from the knife maker and a bit of help and a sprinkle of magic from the older Magicians.

Quentin sits and listens to the ever shifting conversations, his water cup having been replaced by a warm drink he didn’t even dare ask the contents of. He feels slightly lighter, so he’s guessing there’s some sort of inebriating element to it.

The prophecy is brought up again but, thankfully, no one looks to Quentin for his opinion. He lets his gaze get lost in the flames dancing in front of him.

Eventually, most of the group leaves after the knife maker when he mentions forging them each a small dagger _just in case_. Eliot stays behind, moving only to sit closer to Quentin.

“You know,” Eliot breaks the silence, “I really think we can pull this off. Whatever it is, we’ll fight it and we’ll win.”

Quentin gulps and looks away into the thick of the forest behind the fire.

“I can’t help you,” he replies somberly.

“Why not? You’re one of the people I trust the most.”

Eliot sounds resigned, as if he expected Quentin to dig his feet in the dirt and refuse to move along with the current.

“We’ve only just met,” Quentin protests weakly, but he knows it’s not even a good argument anymore.

“It hurts to admit it, but my biggest flaw, Q, is that I care about people. Laugh all you want,” he says as Quentin chuckles next to him, “I know it doesn’t look like it, but I bond fast.”

Quentin sobers up and sighs, turning the cup in his hand over and over, watching the liquid inside almost slosh over at every fast turn.

“I can never really do things right.” He pauses for a bitter chuckle. “I break things. It’s what my mother used to say when I was younger. I think I even had a hand in breaking my parents up, if I’m honest.”

“Oh, hey now,” Eliot chastises, reaching out with a hand and rubbing Quentin’s shoulder. “Parents sometimes say shit like that to rid themselves of responsibilities and accountability for their own wrongdoings. Other times, they’re just being jerks. Trust me, I would know.”

There’s more to that story, Quentin can tell, but the fire is crackling in front of them and he can’t bring himself to question him just yet on such personal topics.

“You know, I could maybe even believe you on that and say I can see how it wasn’t my own fault, if life hadn’t given me enough proof for me to know without a doubt that I always end up messing up things instead of fixing them.”

Eliot removes his hand from Quentin’s shoulder. He picks up his cup from between his feet and downs his drink. It doesn’t escape Quentin how much that action looks like something he’s used to doing often.

“Well, then,” he starts and leans closer to Quentin. “If you really feel that way, then you should own it and take control, for once in your life,” he whispers conspiratorially and hands Quentin his empty clay cup. “Start breaking them on purpose.”

Quentin looks from the offered cup to the mischievous smile on Eliot’s face. He squints skeptically at him. Eliot rolls his eyes and waves the cup in front of Quentin’s face.

“They’re not even that well made. That one is especially crooked. It deserves what is coming. Think of it as some kind of encouragement for them to improve and come up with better ones.”

His words bring an amused smile to Quentin’s face. His gaze returns to the proffered cup. He takes it from Eliot, whose lips curl in delight. He lets his fingers feel its rugged texture, and he shakes his head because Eliot is right, it is hideously crooked.

He puts down his own cup and seriously considers it. Chancing one last look at Eliot’s face, finding an equally supportive and challenging gaze, he takes in a shaky breath and throws the cup at a large rock on the other side of the burning flames in front of them.

It smashes into smaller pieces, and Quentin’s chest puffs out a little when he hears Eliot’s supposed intake of breath next to him.

“You did it,” he mutters, amazed. “Wasn’t sure you had it in you, Coldwater.”

The chatter around them seems to die down as well, as if they’re wondering if the scales on Quentin’s mental health finally tipped.

Eliot breaks the silence by thrusting Quentin’s cup back into his hand.

“Don’t stop now!” he whisper-yells at Quentin.

Before he can think too hard on it, he throws the cup and follows its path until it meets the same fate as the first one.

Eliot lets out a giddy hoot, but the others now start to react as well, only not as enthusiastically positive.

“I knew we shouldn’t have let him drink anything yet. Or leave him with his drinking buddy unsupervised,” he hears Penny comment in the background.

“Hey!”

He turns at the angry shout. He meets Fen’s equally heated expression.

“Are you crazy?”

Oh, the many ways he could answer that…

He’ll never get the chance to come up with a witty response, though. Just as he sees Fen stomping her way towards him, no doubt ready to give him a piece of her mind, he feels Eliot grab his wrists and pull him to his feet.

“Let’s get out of here before we get sliced again today.”

He laughs and pulls Quentin after him. He stumbles, but gladly lets himself be taken as far away from Fen’s wrath as possible.

“Get back here, you two!”

They only run deeper into the forest. They run for a long while, until Quentin can no longer hear Fen’s screeches behind them.

They get to a clearing, where Eliot finally stops. His hand is still wrapped around Quentin’s wrist. He hits the brakes before he smashes right into Eliot. He looks up and his breath stutters on its way out of his lungs.

Under the beam of light, Eliot looks like an old painting. There’s a thin layer of sweat making him glow and his hair curl more around his face. Quentin loses himself in that genuinely happy smile shining brighter than the light of the full moon hitting it.

He can’t help but grin back at him, even if Eliot is busy taking in the sights around him and not really meeting Quentin’s gaze at the moment.

They are both taking a moment to get their breath back, matching chests rising and falling as they take in the Fillorian oxygen laced with some other substance Quentin can’t quite put his finger on just yet.

Eliot finally looks down at him and Quentin does not feel his stomach clench when the smile remains on Eliot’s face.

“I was sure you were gonna throw the cup right back at me, tell me to fuck off and then walk away,” he confided. “You’re quite the little box of surprises, aren’t you, Q?”

Q… That nickname that Eliot insists on calling him. The one that’s so close to what people keep calling him in his dreams of a younger life he doesn’t remember.

He shrugs, like he always does when someone compliments him and he doesn’t know how to react.

“You don’t really think that much of me, do you?” Quentin whispers before he can think too hard about the words falling from his lips.

The fingers wrapped around his wrist squeeze lightly and then relax again, but they don’t let go.

Quentin’s gaze fixes on the reflection of the moonlight dancing across the polished surface of Eliot’s rings.

When he looks up at the other man, he sees the big grin soften into a smaller and more genuine – Quentin would even say – sad smile.

“It’s you who doesn’t seem to think too highly of me.”

“Not anymore, future High King of Fillory,” he jokes, trying to break the weird atmosphere.

Something out of the corner of his eye catches his attention. He looks over to see a stray leaf twirling endlessly in the air, even though there’s no air keeping it floating and defying gravity.

He flushes as it hits him that he’s the one doing it, influenced by his conflicting emotions. Also because Eliot is too close and being all nice to him, while Quentin keeps biting at his calves at every turn like a misbehaved puppy.

He hangs his head and looks down at their shoes.

“I’ve… I’m sorry, Eliot. I’ve come to the conclusion that you’re actually not that bad.”

“ _Not that bad_?” Eliot protests, finally letting go of his wrist so he can playfully push him.

Quentin tells himself he does _not_ feel the absence of those warm fingers on him. He does not. In addition, he would kindly ask you to please not look at the fluttering mess of a leaf right next to them, stuttering around like it’s having a stroke, because he’s a terrible liar and will only end up confessing to what Eliot’s proximity does to him.

Eliot seems to catch onto what Quentin is doing, at last, and smirks down at him.

“Stop,” Quentin scolds before he can even say anything, slapping Eliot on the arm.

“Again,” Eliot starts, “need I remind you it’s not me who’s doing it?”

He knows exactly what he’s doing when he steps closer to Quentin. He can tell from the cocky look in Eliot’s eyes and the flirtatious smile on his face.

It’s weird – and so ill-timed – that Quentin is only now realizing that that look has been on Eliot’s face before. It was Quentin who misinterpreted it for Eliot being arrogant. His jaw falls open in surprise.

He steps back, trying to maintain the distance between them, but more leaves rise up in complex pirouettes, only succeeding in making Eliot’s smirk grow as he continues to stalk Quentin.

It doesn’t come as a surprise when Quentin’s nature gets in the way and he finds himself tripping and losing his balance. He reaches out instinctively and grabs Eliot’s sleeve.

Since the taller man wasn’t expecting it, he ends up being pulled down along with a fumbling Quentin, and they both land with a thump on the floor.

The leaves all seem to unplug from Quentin’s magic and fall on top of them.

“Impressive,” declares Eliot from his place above Quentin, his voice laced with sarcasm.

Quentin rolls his eyes and squirms uncomfortably underneath him.

“Shut up. This was your fault and it was me whose back made contact with the actual ground, not yours,” he mumbles, rubbing at his lower back and feeling his cheeks heat up even more.

Thankfully, Eliot pulls back with a small yet entirely amused laugh and sits up next to Quentin.

He follows the taller man’s lead and sits up as well. He pushes his hair behind his ears and looks at Eliot from the corner of his eye. He’s now removing the fallen leaves and wiping away the dirt from his clothes.

There’s a weird unknown tide dragging him to Eliot and he can’t resist its pull anymore.

“You know, if Margo was here right now, she would totally-”

Eliot can’t finish the thought because Quentin moves before he can let his overthinking mind get the best of him.

Their lips meet only briefly, but the anxiety in Quentin’s chest curls and uncurls. He pulls back, not even giving a stunned Eliot a chance to do it before Quentin can.

When Eliot opens his eyes again and raises a questioning eyebrow at Quentin, his only response is to shrug. Which is apparently a good enough answer for Eliot, who immediately curls his fingers around the back of Quentin’s neck to pull him in again.

He’s free falling. That’s the simplest way to describe it. The vice around his middle slackens and he gets lost in the feeling of Eliot so close, surrounding his every sense, pulling him apart so lovingly.

Quentin brings himself closer and Eliot shifts so he can hold Quentin closer to his chest. Their mouths move and their breathing pick up pace, as does Quentin’s heartbeat.

He feels a quickening breeze around him and he doesn’t need to open his eyes to know he’s making the leaves sprint around them again.

Eliot pulls back with a chuckle. Quentin opens his eyes to look down at a bashful smile on soft reddened lips.

“I’m flattered, truly, but we really need to work on that.”

Quentin watches Eliot make some quick complicated-looking movements with his hands and then all the leaves drop as if someone had cut the strings keeping them floating mid-air.

“That’s better,” Eliot whispers before attacking Quentin’s lips again.

The whole thing is insane but also so liberating. He could get lost in this man’s arms forever. He would get on board with whatever prophecy or rite or destiny, if it meant he got to relish this feeling.

It’s funny how he’s never felt this way before. Not even when he first fell in love with Alice or when they–

_Alice._

_Shit._

He pulls back with such force that he almost falls on his back again, lips ripping away from Eliot’s.

His breath picks up again for entirely different reasons now.

He pulls himself back up on his feet and steps away from Eliot’s reaching hands.

“Quentin, you’re breathing funny again.”

“I… I–” He inhales sharply. “We can’t… I can’t do this, El. I’m sorry, I c–”

He freaks out, desperately avoiding the other man’s gaze, hand reaching deep into his pocket for his only solace.

Once Eliot realizes what he’s about to do, he takes a step forward, but Quentin’s already taking two steps back, looking over his shoulder not to fall again.

He fumbles with the box, trying to open it and get to the small button inside.

“Wait, Q. Let’s talk about this, ok? No need to run away,” he sounds desperate.

Quentin’s hands shake as he finally opens the lid. He looks up at the future High King. He’s standing still and looking as shattered as Quentin feels right now, trying to hold on to something he can already feel slipping through his fingers.

“Please, stay,” Eliot whispers in a defeated tone.

Quentin closes his eyes and presses the button.

* * *

Minutes later and Quentin is sitting on the couch, head in his hands, shaking like a leaf, having gotten through the hardest part of his latest panic attack.

The front door opens, there’s the familiar jingle of keys followed by the sound of the door being closed, but Quentin barely moves, content in counting in his head as he breathes in and out.

The rhythm of high heels tapping on the floor seems to slow down the moment their owner notices him in the living room.

“Quentin?”

He looks up at Alice’s worried tone, overwhelmed with guilt for being the cause of it.

“Are you okay?” she continues, eyebrows drawn together in concern. She puts down her bag and sits next to him, immediately reaching out to comfort him.

He rubs his palms against his face and lets out an unsteady breath. Everything in his mind feels like it’s only a step from collapsing and he’s trying so hard to hold on to reality that his anxiety keeps spiking at random intervals.

“I’m not sure what’s going on,” he admits, quietly.

He can tell her frown only deepens without even looking at her. That’s how well he knows her. That’s how solid his life here is. There’s no magic, no weird creatures or prophecies, only a simple life with a woman he loves, doing something that may not be what he was initially aiming for, but definitely helps pay the bills. That’s good enough for now, isn’t it?

Isn’t it?

“What happened? I haven’t seen you this stressed in so long. Please tell me what I can do to help you.”

He lets out a humorless laugh. It sounds heavy and thorny. He shakes his head, focuses on the table in front of him, not yet ready to face his girlfriend.

“Please tell me there’s no such thing as magic, magic schools and spells, and magicians.”

“Wh-what?” she stutters next to him. It sounds harsher than what he expected. He expected her laughing and questioning where this was all coming from, asking him if he’d had weird dreams again.

Quentin finally looks at Alice and she’s sitting there, frozen on the couch, trying to school her facial expression. Too little, too late. It’s his turn to frown.

“Alice?”

She shakes her head and places her hands carefully on her knees, a small incredulous smile on her face. It blooms in deceitfulness and Quentin’s stomach twists.

“Wait, wait,” she says, finally, seemingly having gotten her voice back. “What do you mean, a magic school? I always thought people learned that from YouTube videos nowadays.”

She finishes with a small laugh, just as disingenuous as the previous smile on her face. Quentin can’t take it. He can’t come back hoping for normalcy only to find lies.

He gets up and starts pacing. One quick look at Alice allows him to see her breathing has quickened and her fingers have turned jittery.

“I-I don’t… I don’t know what you know, but I suggest you don’t make things worse for me. I already think I’m crazy enough as it is, with all those people talking about magic and spells, and-and-and… I saw it! I saw it happen before my eyes, ok? So, don’t… Don’t.”

Alice bites her lips and nods.

“Tell me what happened,” she asks, her tone flat. “Where did this talk of magic come from? And who were those people you mentioned?”

Quentin continues pacing, shaking his head and opening his mouth a few times without any sounds coming out. Then he pauses and closes his eyes, gathering every last drop of consciousness he has to focus on all the crazy he’s been subject too ever since the first talking animals.

“Ok,” he starts, unsteady. He tries again, stronger, “Okay. I… I can’t even wrap my head around it yet, Alice. I know how it sounds to a sane person, but…” He finds her eyes across the coffee table between them. “Something tells me you won’t judge.”

She swallows and looks down at her fingertips. He gives her a moment before continuing.

“They had magic. Or-or, I mean, they could control it or manifest it or– I… I’m not entirely sure how it worked, but they _did_ things with it. They-they were _moving_ things and making things appear and disappear. An-and they also told me they actually studied it! Can you believe it? You can just _learn_ how to make magic! They mentioned some school, here in New York, uh… Brake-something.”

“Brakebills,” she whispers, stunned, but Quentin is stuck trying to collect his own thoughts and barely processes it.

“Yeah, that was it! And Julia!” He starts gesturing frantically around him, a wild look in his eyes. “Julia was there, too! I hadn’t seen her in so long, and suddenly she tells me she… she said she’d disappeared because _she was at that school learning magic_. Magic! I-I…”

“Julia?” Alice’s incredulous voice interrupts him. When he focuses on her again, she’s already standing, arms by her side, hands no longer fidgeting. “Your best friend Julia? She’s Julia Wicker?”

“Yes, that’s her.” And then, finally, the whirlwind of thoughts and emotions slows to a stop inside Quentin’s head. “How, uh, how do you know that?” he asks quietly.

The nervous energy in her seems to start flowing through her body again. Quentin watches as her fingers intertwine and her wrists move in circles to release some of the tension.

“Quentin…”

“You knew.” He points a figurative finger. “This isn’t news for you. You know about this school. You have to, because you knew its name.”

“Listen, I…” she starts in a soft voice, making her way around the coffee table to approach him, probably trying to reach out and comfort him, but he feels cornered instead.

He pulls back instinctively, immediately raising an arm to placate her. She seems to understand, stopping in her tracks, shoulders dropping in defeat.

“I never told you about it and I see how that’s going to put a strain in our relationship, but you can’t blame me, Quentin. If I’d told you right from the start, you’d have thought me insane and this,” she says desperately while gesturing between them, “wouldn’t have happened. I love you.”

“I… no. That’s… no. You don’t get to just throw that on the table now. It won’t just magically make it all okay again.” He laughs and shakes his head at his terrible unintentional pun. “Oh, god. I didn’t even mean to…”

Alice nods, tears in her eyes, and changes tracks.

“I did study at Brakebills. The students there, we don’t just come out of it and start telling everyone that magic is a thing that exists. Not everyone has that ability. They know who has potential and they pick them up to test them when the moment is right. Some of us know beforehand because we come from families of Magicians.”

She curls her soft blond hair behind her ear and quickly wipes away her fallen tears.

“I was one of those people. My parents had it. My brother,” her voice breaks around a sob there and Quentin looks up at that, but Alice already looking away. She restarts, “my brother studied there, too.”

It comes as a surprise. It digs a deep hole between them and makes him realize that he doesn’t stand on solid ground anymore. He thought he knew her; turns out he only accessed the parts of her she’d allowed him to roam.

“I didn’t know you had a brother,” he voices the thought crossing his mind.

“I don’t. Not anymore,” she cries, finally, the words pouring out of her. “It was an accident. You see, magic isn’t always the fix-it-all you hear from childhood fairytales.”

She sniffs and wipes her tears again.

“I wanted to study it, learn it all. At first, I thought I could save him.” She smiles and nods at her past naivety, more tears threatening to fall. “I was wrong. It took me a while to come to terms with it and I almost went down the same path, you know? I survived it. Some people helped. I see now that’s what they were trying to do back then, but at the time… I hated them and I lashed out and hurt a lot of people in the process. Julia… I think I wasn’t always kind to her.”

Quentin’s head is swimming in sea of turbulent thoughts. His heart aches, too. He feels torn between wanting to reach out and envelop her in loving arms, and going out for a smoke or lie down on his bed and sleep for a whole week.

“Alice, I’m so sorry,” he says instead. It doesn’t fix anything, but he finds that he means it and that’s the best he can offer for now.

She smiles sadly at him, so maybe there was some comfort in that. She wipes her eyes one final time and collects herself, unconsciously correcting her posture and adjusting her glasses on the bridge of her nose.

“We study at Brakebills for three years. We learn different subjects from master Magicians – like Healing, Alchemy, Illusions, etc. – and we perfect the spells as we go. They also test you to find your Discipline. We can perform many different spells, but we all have specific skills we’re better at, so any spells related to your Discipline will come more naturally to you. Once you find yours, you usually move in with other students who share your talent. My discipline is Phosphoromancy. It means I can manipulate light. It’s a branch of the Physical Discipline.”

“So that one time when the lights went out in every building on this block except for our apartment…”

Alice chuckles and looks down, looking a lot like the shy young woman Quentin met a few years ago.

“There may have been some magic involved in that, yes.”

“How-How many are there? Disciplines, I mean.” Quentin asks, his curiosity taking over.

“There are six main disciplines that branch out into different categories. So there’s Physical Magic, Natural Magic, Illusion Magic, Knowledge, Healing Magic, and Psychic Magic. It’s usually determined in your first year there.”

Quentin nods, trying to absorb it all.

“It’s too much, isn’t it?” Alice asks, wincing sympathetically.

“It’s a little overwhelming, not gonna lie. But, I mean, if I’m to be a part of this new world, I should probably learn as much as possible.”

That seems to get a reaction out of Alice.

“Wh-what do you mean?”

“Well,” Quentin starts, “remember those people I mentioned, Julia and the other ones who told me about this? They were Magicians, too. Or so they told me… But they wanted me to give it a go. I think they initially did it as a joke, but…”

Her mouth fell open. “Can you…?”

Quentin bit his lip and shrugged. “I think so? I mean, Eliot showed me a simple–”

Alice’s stare darkened and she quickly interrupted him. “Eliot? As in Eliot Waugh?”

“I-uh, he didn’t really… I don’t know? Maybe?”

She crosses her arms. “Tall, dark, shitty attitude, thinks he’s better than everyone else?”

He squints at a distant point behind her. “I… that’s a way to put it, I guess. Kinda fits. You know him, too?”

“He’s a Physical kid, too.”

“Oh, so he manipulates things. Objects? Makes sense, I guess,” he adds, more to himself, thinking about all the things he kept making float their way to annoy Quentin when he was trying to concentrate on something.

“So what did he teach you to do to figure out if you’ve got magic powers or not?”

He shrugs. “He wanted me to move a bunch of little rocks.”

“And did you?”

He coughs a little, remembering how that came to happen and how overwhelming the whole experience was. He blushes at the memory.

“I did, eventually. And then I passed out for a little bit. Or so they told me.”

Alice nods, relaxing from her crossed arms stance and letting out a deep sigh.

“So how did you guys cross paths?”

Quentin scratches the back of his head.

“Yeah, so… that’s where things got weird…”

He tells her all about the bunnies and his grandmother. He describes what he’s experienced of Fillory and the strange people (and occasional talking animals) he’s met there. Quentin also explains how Eliot has become the High King of Fillory and how he’s dealing with everything that’s been going on in the kingdom.

When it comes to talking about the prophecy, he hesitates. In the end, he decides not to bring it up his role in it just yet. Especially after her reaction to him having struck up an acquaintance with Eliot. Or her obvious general distaste of the guy.

“So he’s the king of this magical land? I’m sure that didn’t immediately go to his head or anything,” Alice bites sometime later, bitter sarcasm dripping from her mouth.

They’re now sitting on the couch, sharing a bottle of wine, their take out dinner taking over the coffee table in front of them.

Quentin falters but shrugs in the end. “I think he actually took it quite well, considering. I think it suits his high and mighty personality.”

Alice snorts at that, shaking her head and obviously holding something back. Quentin lets it go for now. He’s not feeling particularly inclined to dig deeper into this animosity between them.

“So…”

She looks up, an eyebrow raising questioningly.

“Yes?”

“You’re… are you really a lawyer?”

She swirls the glass in her hand and takes a moment to figure out how to best approach his question.

“Kind of. I work at The Library. Not… not a regular one,” she adds when she sees Quentin start to frown at her. “It’s related to Brakebills and all the magic stuff. Too complicated to get into right now. I promise to explain later, but I think it’s best if we feed you all this background info a little at a time.”

Quentin leans back on the couch with a deep sigh. Alice picks up his empty glass from the table and gets up.

“We should probably get some rest. You, especially.”

He nods and gets up to help clean the table. Once they’ve put all the leftovers in the fridge and cleaned up the place, Quentin stretches in the middle of the kitchen. Alice comes up to him and hugs him from behind.

“I’m sorry I didn’t say anything before. I don’t have the same relationship with magic that everyone else who’s studied or practiced it seems to have. I think it’s useful in practical contexts, but not in whimsical ways, like Eliot and the other people I’ve met at Brakebills seem to think it is.”

She pulls back and Quentin turns around to face her. She exhales and brings a hand to caress his face.

“They made it all about having fun and making things in life easier for them. I couldn’t do that. Magic only ever _took_ from me. I could never see it as something that would bring lightness and laughter to my life.”

Quentin nods understandingly but keeps his silence. He drops a kiss on her forehead instead.

“Come to bed?”

“In a bit,” he replies. “I’m just gonna…” he gestures around at a loss for words that convey exactly what he’s trying to explain.

Alice seems to understand what he’s getting at, though. She smiles kindly at him and stands on her tiptoes, her warm hand pulling his face closer to her so she can kiss him sweetly on the lips.

“Take your time. I know it was a lot. But don’t lose much sleep over it, okay? We’ll get through this.”

“Good night,” is the only lame response he can muster for the moment.

Quentin hears the sound of her feet fade away as she makes her way to their bedroom, and then he hears the click of the door closing behind her.

It’s only then that his posture loses some of its rigidity and relaxes into a more familiar slump. He walks around the kitchen island and pads back to the couch. He falls face-down on it and lets out an anguished breath.

He thinks of the things he’s keeping from Alice. The prophecy that puts him next to the High King when hell comes crashing down on Fillory, the spells his Magician friends have taught him, the button that leads him to Fillory…

His hand sneaks his way into his pants’ pocket, fingers curling around the small box in a protective and instinctive gesture.

He didn’t even tell her _about_ Fillory.

Quentin turns around and fixes his gaze on his ceiling.

He tries not to think about the way Eliot reached for him, the pleading clear in his eyes. How could he possibly think that Quentin could ever help him with something this big?

It doesn’t even help that whatever seems to be happening between them is making him question so many other things, like his relationship with Alice.

How can you think you know someone so well and then have the rug pulled from under your feet so suddenly? His feelings for her haven’t so much changed as they became more complex. He still cares about her a great deal, but now there’s also the sense that she could be hiding something still and he’d be none the wiser.

 _“Stay,”_ Eliot had pleaded only seconds before Quentin’s panic took over and pushed him into pressing the button that would bring him back to Earth.

There’s a shift in the air and a bunny plops down on the carpet next to the couch. Quentin startles and turns to face it.

“Please come back,” it croaks.

Quentin sits up and brings his knees closer to his chest. He stares at the dark fur of the messenger bunny.

He gulps and reaches forward to send a message back.

“I’m sorry. Need time,” he whispers at it. He throws it in the air and watches it disappear.

He gets up, turns off the lights and walks towards his bedroom.

He can only hope Eliot will understand he’s doing what’s best for everyone.

* * *

The next morning, Quentin wakes up to an otherwise empty bed. He can sense the smell of coffee in the air, though, so he knows Alice is still home. He rubs at his eyes and gets up, leaving the warm and protective cocoon of his bed behind.

To be honest, between Earth and Fillory, he’s starting to lose track of what day of the week it is.

Sure enough, when Quentin walks into the kitchen, Alice immediately looks up with a sheepish expression.

Now that the worst of their conversation the previous night has evaporated – along with all the negative feelings of distrust – Quentin feels all the guilt sink to the bottom of his stomach.

How can he be mad at Alice for keeping magic a secret when he’s keeping what happened with Eliot a secret too?

“Good morning.”

Her tone is cautious, as if she’s testing the waters before moving on to more complex topics Quentin’s not sure he’s ready to revisit just yet.

“Morning,” he replies, dragging his feet as he approaches the coffee machine.

“Did you… did you sleep well?” she asks, unknowingly cutting him even deeper.

He sighs. He didn’t even make it to his mug of coffee.

“Look, Alice, I’m… I was going through a lot last night. Now, that’s not an excuse, ok? It’s more of a preface here.”

She remains silent on her seat, hand smoothing the skirt over her knees. Quentin leans back against the counter.

“I’m sorry, Alice. I let it all get to me and was quick to throw the blame, but it wasn’t your fault at all.” He pauses for another sigh. “I truly understand why you couldn’t say anything. Those other people – the other Magicians – I met in Fillory, they explained to me that they would be quick to erase your mind at Brakebills should you cross a line.” He shakes his head at himself and looks down. “I knew that and I still treated you the way I did. That wasn’t very nice. It wasn’t right either.”

He allows himself a bigger pause and scratches the back of his neck. The urge to start pacing around the kitchen is crawling under his skin and all over his body.

Quentin really needs that coffee. He moves towards the machine again, turning it on and preparing his coffee before the conversation stops him again.

“Besides,” he takes a deep – and hopefully strengthening – breath, “I wasn’t too honest either. Or, well, not entirely _dishonest_ either, maybe just not too forthcoming with everything that has happened on my side of things. Especially in Fillory.”

Alice tilts her head and her eyebrows furrow, but she remains mute for the time being. Quentin’s anxiety spikes up a little bit in response. He grabs his now ready coffee and blows gently on its surface before taking an encouraging sip.

How can he phrase it without it sounding as bad as he thinks it will?

“So… you know, Eliot?”

Her eyes take on a fiery glimmer that vanishes in the blink of an eye.

“What about Eliot?”

The way she spits out his name is enough of a clue to Quentin that there’s no possible way to make this something she won’t be angry about for days.

“Well, he… I, uh… We kissed yesterday.”

There. Band-Aid ripped off.

Alice’s back straightens at once and Quentin could swear he saw a flash of hurt on her face before her facial expression cooled into an angry frown.

“Why did he do that? Did you tell him you were dating me? I should have known that small town Magician would try to pull something like this. He never accepted that I was better than him.”

She speaks so fast that Quentin’s brain is thrown for a loop as he tries to keep up. Maybe he should ask her what the feud is all about. It seems that, whatever happened between them, bygones won’t stay bygones.

“What… wait…”

But she’s already getting up from the kitchen stool and pacing. Quentin puts his mug down and follows her with her eyes as she speaks again.

“We always had the best marks in class, you know? I worked my ass off and studied and actually cared, but _Eliot_ …”

She stops there and huffs. Turns out Quentin won’t need to ask anything.

“He was always partying and sleeping around, even skipped classes sometimes. I don’t know what he did to get the marks he got, but when he finally graduated, he was at the top of the class.”

Her pacing continues, her shoulders tense, the look in her eyes almost murderous.

“They moved me up. I was catching up so fast that they let me move on to more advanced classes, so I ended up in his class. Let’s just say we didn’t really click, especially because he kept getting in my way.”

She stops her pacing and looks at Quentin with a sad smile.

“Clearly, he’s still trying to ruin things for me.”

“Alice,” he starts, pulling away from the kitchen counter behind him and moving forward to get closer to his girlfriend. “I can’t pretend to understand what you went through. From what you told me, you dealt with too much shit already and I’d hate to add to it.”

Quentin looks away for a moment, gathering the courage to say what needs to be said.

“He doesn’t know I’m dating you. In fact, I don’t think he knows I’m dating anyone. And… it was me who kissed him.”

Alice frowns and that hurt look returns to her beautiful blue eyes.

“It was one of those in the moment kind of things. It didn’t mean anything. I was just overwhelmed with it all.”

He lets out a sigh and his shoulders drop.

“I’m an asshole and I understand if you want to leave me, but I want to try to fix it. There’s something else I want to share with you regarding everything that’s going on in Fillory. If you could help me with it, I can leave it all behind, return here and never look back.”

She bites her lip and looks at the forgotten mug of coffee on the kitchen counter. Quentin pretends not to see her lip quiver for a moment before she quickly brushes a finger under her eye.

“I need to go to work now,” she says, and Quentin’s heart clenches. “But we can talk once I get back, ok? You have to go to work too, so it’s better if we take some time and let things settle for now.”

One side of her mouth quirks up in an encouraging small smile. It rekindles the hope in Quentin’s chest.

“Right, of course,” he replies.

She walks up to him and drops a warm kiss to his cheek before picking up her cellphone and leaving the kitchen.

Quentin leans back against the kitchen island and lets his head fall back until it thumps lightly against the cupboard.

* * *

Work numbs it all, for the most part.

There are no more bunnies this time around, but he has a feeling it won’t last very long before a fluffy friend drops onto his lap again.

When he unlocks the door to his apartment at the end of the day, he feels the tension drop back on his shoulders.

The lights in the living room are on and the knot in his stomach tightens.

Alice looks up when he drops the keys at the silver bowl by the front door.

“Hey,” she says.

“Hey,” he parrots back.

He drops his things by the coffee table and sits down beside her on the couch, keeping a small distance between them. Something he had never thought to do before.

“I’m ready to listen,” she starts.

Alice reaches for his hand and curls her fingers around his. He swallows at the lack of warmth he feels from that gesture, even though it’s not because she doesn’t mean it. Things have shifted inside him and he doesn’t feel the same anymore, but there’s way too many things going on for him to sit down and go over it on his own right now.

“I want to fix things, too. I don’t want to lose what we have,” she confides. His heart cracks.

“Uh, there’s…” He clears his throat. “There’s a prophecy, apparently. I… Listen, I didn’t even know magic was a real thing until I almost fell face-first into it.”

His unoccupied hand curls and uncurls from his nervous-induced fist, finally stretching and rubbing at his knee.

“That turned out to be true, though. I did perform magic. I could feel the energy of it rushing through me.”

He chanced a glance at her and saw a small understanding smile.

“It’s exciting, isn’t it?” she asks, already knowing the answer.

Quentin nods and looks down again, caressing her soft fingers.

“That’s why I told you that when I… when that happened with Eliot, I was just– it was a whole mix of emotions and I don’t–”

She squeezes his fingers.

“It’s okay, Quentin. We don’t… we don’t have to go there right now.”

Which Quentin’s mind helpfully translated into “ _I’m ready to hear about this Fillory thing, but not about you making out with my archenemy_ ”. He nods again, but doesn’t look away this time.

“So the prophecy… Apparently I have to help the new King save their land. I don’t know yet what the problem is, but I know Eliot is going to be the new High King of Fillory. I think I’m supposed to mediate or something, and find someone who can help him.”

She nods and Quentin watches her facial expression take on that usual “this is business” look.

“Okay, so do you have any theories yet or are we walking in on this completely blind?”

He squeezes his eyes shut and tries to sort through all the memories – recent and older – to try to find a good enough answer.

“Uh, one of the natives I met mentioned something about how I could help bring back their White Night.” He looks back at her. “I think I dreamt about that.”

Alice frowns.

“White Night? What dream?”

Quentin lets go of her hand and gets up, pacing back and forth, running his fingers through his hair.

“I’ve been having these strange dreams that all connect somehow. I think– Alice, I-I think they’re memories. I think I’ve been to Fillory before, but I forgot all about it somehow.”

He pauses mid-stride and looks at her, eyes wide and scared.

“I think my grandmother deleted my memories of it somehow.”

Alice’s features morph into a look of surprise. Before Quentin can add anything to it, Alice’s mouth opens and she stands up, grabbing Quentin’s arm urgently.

“Your grandmother who passed away recently?”

Quentin nods. “Yeah, why?”

“What was her name?”

_Jane Chatwin._

He frowns and trembles. She went by a different name, though.

“Eliza. Eliza Coldwater.”

The words slip out of his mouth and leave a sour taste on his tongue. He knows that’s not really her name.

Alice takes a step back in shock.

“Quentin, Eliza was the name of the specialist in Brakebills who erased the minds of the students who didn’t pass the entry exam.”

He blinks at her, a dizzy spell coursing through him.

“I-I need to sit down.”

She immediately reaches out and leads him back to the couch.

“I’m going to get you a glass of water, okay? Please don’t do anything before I return.”

She looks back over her shoulder twice on her way to the kitchen.

Quentin looks at the white wall in front of him. His fingers shake and he takes in a shuddering breath.

Before long, a hand grabs his cold fingers and places a glass of water on them.

“I put some sugar in it. It’ll help. Somewhat.”

He downs the drink and gently places the empty glass on the coffee table.

“Oh my god,” he finally exhales. “How-how is this all– how does it all fit together? And how did I never know? How– Does my dad know about any of this?”

“Quentin. Hey,” she says gently, cradling his face and turning him to look at her. “One thing at a time, ok? Let’s solve this Fillory thing so you won’t need to go back again.”

He nods, mentally shoving the million other questions rising to the surface of his confused mind.

“The White Night, you said? What’s that?”

“Right. So, uh, there’s this- this sort of celebration. It involves magic. There’s this huge white tree that- my great-uncle – oh god, my _great-uncle_ – enchanted. Every year, for one night only, this tree would… I don’t know how… I guess it created these crystals. They had magic in them. It was like a year-worth of therapy sessions inside a small gem. People would become happier and more relaxed. I think it probably helped with the downsides of being magic-less in a magical land.”

Alice nods along, mentally keeping track of all the important info.

“Then why do they need your help with this now?”

Quentin shrugs, but then a possible reason comes to mind.

“They’ve been without a Magician King since my grandmother and her siblings all passed away. I obviously don’t remember anything, but I have a feeling she was the last one to die, and I don’t think she was in any condition to be visiting Fillory in her last couple of years of life.”

“So that means they haven’t had this magical evening in a couple of years now.”

Quentin nods. “I figure things have been tense there. I didn’t get the chance to go into details with the locals I met, but I think that’s probably what this is all about, now that I think about it.”

Alice gets up, wringing her fingers.

“You need to go back.”

“What? You just said–”

“You need to confirm that’s what’s going on so we can get on it.” She pauses and gets a pensive look. “I think I may know someone who can help us. I’m going to bring it up to my boss at the Library.”

He looks up at her. “Right. Your actual job.”

She smiles apologetically at him. “We can do this, Quentin.”

Before he can react to that statement, a bunny falls on the coffee table, knocking the empty glass to the floor. Quentin watches it shatter.

Alice jumps back with a small squeal and Quentin immediately grabs for the bunny, not wanting it to fall on the broken shards.

_“We’re waiting. Coronation Island.”_

“What is _that_?” Alice anxiously points at the fluffy animal in Quentin’s arms.

He looks down and pets it before looking up at her with a smile.

“This is my official call back to Fillory.”

* * *

Quentin realizes he’s starting to get the hang of it. Well, he’s not really doing anything different. Not _consciously_ , that is, but at least he doesn’t fall nor even stumble as he travels to Fillory this time.

He explained the bunny-messaging system to Alice and she promised to keep the bunny around her for when she had something to report back to him. She was going to talk to her boss and hopefully figure out a plan to help Fillory.

Meanwhile, Quentin returns to Fillory to get Eliot officially crowned and get this prophecy thing moving. The faster he’s done with it, the quicker he returns to his life on Earth.

It doesn’t matter if the desire to cut ties with magic and everything – and _everyone_ – tied to it isn’t as _certain_ and _right_ as it was before. The more he hangs around this place and its people – locals or magicians – the more he doubts about his place in all of this.

Would his grandmother want him here beside the next King? Probably not. She had erased his mind, after all.

“Oh, good, you’re finally here.”

Penny’s bored voice comes from further up ahead. Quentin watches as he turns and walks farther up and waves at the others.

“Hey, the nerd’s here!”

“I resent that,” Quentin says as soon as he reaches the top.

He looks around. Julia greets him with a big smile and an excited wave. Margo considers him with a squinting look. Eliot…

Eliot forces a smile and then looks away.

It feels like someone just shoved him backwards and he doesn’t know why. Or, well, he guesses, but denial is a strong game that Quentin has been playing his whole life, and this is no different.

Margo snorts beside him, slapping him on the back and walking forward.

“Let’s get this show on the road before the Knight dies on us again.”

“What?” Quentin asks, thrown for a moment and finally looking away from Eliot’s turned back.

Margo waves it off. “Long story. Don’t worry, I was told the way back to the castle is long, so I’ll tell you about all that you missed on this crazy adventure, but only after I get that crown.”

* * *

Much later that evening, he’s leaning against a cold wall at the castle.

It took a while for them to grasp the idea that all of this was real. The walls were sturdy and cold beneath their hands as they ran them over and over their rough surface.

They kept walking around, taking it all in, smiling at each other like grown kids on Christmas morning as they ripped the paper on their presents.

That _quelque chose_ shining in their eyes at every turn, every new room they found.

Eventually, Eliot was pulled away from the group by the Royal Advisor. Apparently, they were barely keeping this ship afloat and there was an imminent war with a neighboring Kingdom.

Quentin and the others were shown the rest of the castle and offered food. He couldn’t bring himself to eat right now.

His nerves kept eating at him. He was waiting on Alice to send him a message. And he also felt weird about how things were between him and Eliot.

He lets his head fall back and thump softly against the wall behind him. His crown is in his hands. He grips it and wills it to bring him some kind of wisdom.

Seconds later, a familiar looking bunny drops at his feet.

He crouches down, placing his crown down delicately and picking up the bunny.

_“My boss wants to meet.”_

Quentin takes in a relieved breath and puts the bunny back down. He picks up his crown again and asks around for Eliot.

One of the guards leads him to the weapons room. He pauses at the doorway, nervously gripping his crown.

Eliot sits in the middle of an empty, obviously ransacked room. He has an open book on his lap.

Quentin leans against the wall and observes quietly. Warmth blooms in his chest. What is it about this man that twists Quentin from the inside like this?

“So everything is upside down in this place. The nearest Kingdom is aware of Fillory’s weaknesses, especially after being temporarily ruled by someone who had no idea how important it is to play nice with others. They smelled blood in the water and now they want a war. They think they’re stronger than us and want to take over and expand their territory,” Eliot declares matter-of-factly, not even looking up from the book he has in his hands.

Quentin smiles.

“They’re lucky they got you as their King. As you told me once, you care about people. You’ll make an excellent King, because you’ll have their best interests at heart.”

Eliot finally looks up at Quentin, a haunting look in his eyes.

“I’m terrified I’ll fuck it all up, Q. It’s not just my mess of a life anymore. I’m looking over thousands of lives here. I have no experience with this, and I also told you I’m terrible at this whole having to take responsibility over big things.” He pauses to let out a humorless chuckle. “I don’t think it gets bigger than reigning a kingdom in a foreign land I know nothing about.”

Quentin feels bad. His heart clenches and twists for this kind human being worrying himself to death. He steps forward from the wall and makes his way to Eliot. He sits beside him.

“Hey. You were destined to do this, so I’m sure you’ll turn it around in all the right ways.”

Eliot looks sideways at him, a vulnerable look Quentin won’t read into.

“And you were destined to help me, so you can’t just leave me again.”

Quentin gulps but remains silent. He doesn’t even know what to say. He can’t continue to be around Eliot for so long when it messes with his mind – and emotions – like this. Besides, he was just here to tell Eliot that he was going to have to leave.

“Look,” Eliot starts before Quentin finds the right words to deliver the news. “I don’t care about what happened. We can turn the page on it and pretend nothing happened, if you prefer, but I need you here by my side. I wasn’t joking when I told you you are one of the few people I truly trust to help me figure this out.”

Quentin bites his lip. He doesn’t have a response to all of that just yet, but…

“I will help you. We’ll help these people.”

Eliot gives him a genuine close-lipped smile. Quentin has to look away to avoid seeing it vanish.

“But part of doing that implies me having to go back to Earth to sort out some things.”

He’s not looking, but he feels Eliot’s gaze drop from him.

“So you’re leaving again.”

Quentin bumps their shoulders together and lets them rest connected, wanting to send a message here that he’ll be by Eliot’s side. At least until all of this is over. Then he has to go back to his life on Earth and throw the damn button into the ocean or something else dramatic and definite like that. But Eliot doesn’t need to know that.

“I won’t take as long this time around, I promise,” is what he says instead.

Eliot nods quietly.

After a moment of silence, he speaks up again.

“You know, I think the rule stands that you can’t touch a King without his permission.”

Quentin immediately pulls away, then pauses.

“What if the other person is a King too?”

Eliot swallows and throw him a quick vulnerable look.

“Maybe it’s allowed, you know, a small exception as the other King is leaving again. A parting hug?”

The question is loaded. Quentin is fully aware this is not merely a parting hug.

He turns around and engulfs the taller man in his arms. He doesn’t mention the satisfied shudder he feels coming from the both of them when Eliot seems to make himself smaller in Quentin’s arms to absorb all the comfort being offered.

* * *

“Quentin, this is Everett, my boss.”

Alice gestures at the bespectacled middle-aged man standing in front of him with a hand extended towards Quentin.

He shakes it politely.

“Alice told me about your problem and I think I have a solution,” the man says, going straight to the point.

Quentin gives him a neutral smile.

“I’m willing to listen. I have a few worries of my own, but… why don’t we sit down and talk more about it?”

They sit down and talk over their respective hot beverages.

“I want to do what’s best for the Fillorian people. They’ve been through some bad stuff already for the past few years. This was their only safe haven and they’ve been denied access to it since their last Kings and Queens ruled the land,” Quentin explains.

Everett nods and takes a sip of his dark coffee.

“I looked into Fillory after Alice came to me with your situation. There is a magic well in Fillory. If you take Alice to it, we can connect it to the Library. If we link up the magic, I’m sure we can restore the magical flow and bring peace to Fillorians.”

Quentin takes a deep breath. This is is. This is what he wanted. He needed to find someone who knows what they’re doing to help Eliot. He did it.

“I need you to promise you’ll have these people’s best interests in mind. I’m sorry, it’s nothing personal, it’s just… I don’t want them getting burned again.”

He also doesn’t want this going wrong and tumble all down on top of Eliot.

Everett smiles.

“I guessed you’d say that. We can draw up a word as bond contract.”

Quentin frowns.

“What’s that, exactly?”

Alice intervenes. “It’s a magical contract. Once you both sign it, you’re forced to keep your word. You can’t go back on it.”

Okay. That was good, right? It means Everett can’t change his mind last minute.

“Yeah, okay. How does this work?”

Alice acts as a mediator. She explains it all, they go through the details carefully and then the deal is done. Everett leaves with a smile on his face after shaking Quentin’s hand.

His girlfriend beams at him.

“Take me to this magical Wellspring, then.”

* * *

Eliot is skeptical of the whole thing. Especially after seeing who Quentin’s brought along to Fillory.

Quentin pretends not to hear his whispered conversation with Margo as Alice inspects the magical well with her Library instruments.

“I have a bad feeling about this,” Eliot says as he keeps Alice under is burning gaze.

“Are you sure that’s not just jealousy getting the best of you,” Margo comments and Quentin doesn’t let it get to his head.

“As if,” the other man huffs. “I just know she’s up to no good.”

And then he turns and leaves the small cottage-like building surrounding the well.

Margo crosses her arms and looks at Quentin. He doesn’t know how to interpret her long stare, but it feels like she’s peeling away all his layers to look inside his mind.

Is that something people can do with magic?

He shudders and looks away.

Alice finally finds what she was looking for and explains to Quentin that it’ll be easy to perform the spell. Sure enough, five minutes later, she’s putting everything away again and smiling up at him.

“Ready to go back home?”

She stands on her tiptoes and pecks his lips. He tries not to recoil. He doesn’t know where this feeling is suddenly coming from, but he feels inclined to agree with Eliot.

It was all… too easy.

Five minutes and it’s all done and over with? After all the grief he went through with this whole prophecy mess and all the strange dreams/memories?

He lets her slip her fingers through his and pull him away. He ignores the pointed stare coming from Margo.

* * *

Everything seems to go back to normal in the following week.

He doesn’t hear from Fillory again, though he feels like Eliot is probably mad or disappointed that he left him alone to rule the kingdom. He tries not to think of the crown he left behind in his assigned bedroom at the Whitespire Castle.

He hid the button from Alice. It wasn’t really a conscious decision he made to hide it from her. She knows what it is and what it does, but he doesn’t feel right leaving it around. It follows him around everywhere now.

She seems happier.

Quentin isn’t sure what changed, exactly, but she has a different, more settled glow now. She keeps surrounding him with her love. He feels it like the straying waves on a beach during a high tide, always reaching for more and more land to claim.

He feels it crashing against him like an immovable rock. Her loving warmth doesn’t reach him anymore. His heart feels cold and the more he thinks about it, the more he realizes that there’s something irreparably broken about them.

The whole week he’s been trying to shove that feeling deep down, hoping that if he doesn’t face it straight on, it won’t raise any doubts inside him.

He was wrong.

The overwhelming silence coming from the Fillory crew isn’t helping either. He feels like a desert island.

Once again, Alice called during his lunch break to tell him she’d come in late that day. It was the fourth time that week that Quentin had received such a call.

He guesses it makes sense that with an extra link to Fillory now, the Library has more work to do. Whatever it is they actually do… Alice is still super vague on the details, and Quentin doesn’t care enough to ask for more.

Why does he feel so unhappy, though?

Isn’t this what he wanted, his normal life back?

What could he possibly crave more?

He unlocks the door to the apartment, walks inside and lets his keys drop to the glass bowl by the entrance.

He closes the door behind him and drops his messenger bag on the floor. Before he can take another step inside and toe off his shoes, there’s a frantic knock on his door, followed by an angry familiar voice.

“Open this door right now, Coldwater, or so help me god!”

He turns around and immediately obliges.

Margo storms inside, followed by an eye-rolling Penny.

“What the fuck did you do?”

Quentin stutters for a bit, trying to take it all in.

“I– What– How are you here? Did you break the curse?”

Margo gives him an unimpressed look.

“You’re lucky Eliot made me promise to ask questions first and attack later.”

He stumbles back.

“Wh-What? Why? What did I do?”

“That’s what she just asked you, you dumbass!”

Quentin doesn’t even turn to Penny, deciding it’s better to deal with Margo, even if she’s super angry right now.

“Something’s wrong,” she starts. “The talking animals aren’t talking, magic is failing, and Eliot is trying to juggle it all while trying to avoid an upcoming war with Loria.”

Quentin frowns, the heavy led at the bottom of his stomach seemingly digging further down into him.

“What do you mean, magic is failing?”

Margo’s hands fall to her hips. She looks both angry and scared.

“I mean that nothing is working right and people are angry, scared and miserable, and they want to take it out on Eliot.”

“Shit,” he mutters. Why? Why does he always have to break things?

“Exactly,” Penny interrupts. “So tell us what the fuck you and your girlfriend did to fuck it all up, so we can find a way to fix it before it’s too late.”

“I-I… I don’t know. I signed a contract with the Library.”

“You _what_?”

“A word as bond or whatever they called it. It was a mutual assurance that both sides would keep their words.”

“Jesus, he’s fucking stupid, I told you,” Penny tells Margo.

“Shut up,” she replies before turning to Quentin. “Did you read the fine print? What did they have to promise, exactly?”

“I… I told them they had to have the Fillorian people’s interest in mind.”

“That’s vague enough for them to find a way around it,” Penny comments, sounding more stable now.

“Fuck,” Quentin exhales. “I told Eliot I wasn’t good at this, and that I’d only end up doing more harm than good.”

He rubs at his forehead and watches Margo pace the living room and Penny cross his arms.

“We need to warn Eliot,” Penny states moments later.

“You’re right,” Margo replies.

“Look,” she says, turning to Quentin again. “Talk to your girlfriend, try to understand what went wrong. I’ll talk to Eliot, see if we can find a loophole to your contract. We’ll return tomorrow, if we don’t hear from you first.”

“Let’s go, Traveler.”

She laces her arm through Penny’s and they vanish into thin air.

Quentin punches the wall behind him on impulse. He then looks for some ice to place on his knuckles and keep him company while waiting for Alice to return.

* * *

It’s almost midnight when Quentin hears the key slip into the lock.

He’s been pacing and biting his fingernails for the past forty minutes or so.

“Oh,” Alice says, clearly surprised to see Quentin waiting for her.

“Did we schedule something I forgot?” she asks.

Quentin fixes his gaze on her, trying to read her. More and more she seems like a complete stranger to him.

“What did you make me do?”

She stops cold, letting the door close behind her and curling her hand around her set of keys.

“I did what was right.”

There’s a fire growing inside him.

“So you admit you did something.”

“I told you before, Quentin. Magic isn’t a child’s toy. It’s serious stuff. It hurts more than helps. It’s better if an institution like the Library is in control of what’s being released out there, so no one is even capable of dealing with more magic than they’re able to.”

Quentin’s jaw drops when it hits him.

“This is about Charlie.”

“This is about everyone else who won’t ever risk their lives like my brother. They won’t even have the chance to do it.”

Quentin shakes his head, even when Alice’s blue eyes drown in unshed tears.

“Magic is dangerous, Quentin! You don’t know what it’s like. You had your first taste of it. Your very limited experience with it hasn’t allowed you to see the bad and the ugly. There have been so many battles because of Magicians with thirst for power. There are even Hedge Witches out there! They want access to magic, even though they were kicked out of Brakebills for good reason! And they’ll do anything to get their hands on it.”

The tears finally fall and she throws her arms open in frustration.

“Can’t you see I did it for the greater good? Those people won’t ever torment others again because they’ll never have unlimited access to magic.”

Quentin frowns at her.

“The greater good? Are you serious, Alice? I’m risking sounding very insensitive right now, but your brother was an isolated case. I know it hurts and I’m deeply sorry you lost him like that, but you can’t apply that to every other Magician out there. And the… other witches, whatever you called them, I’m sure there are other ways to deal with them. But what you did...”

He shakes his head again and takes a deep breath.

“Alice, people in Fillory are suffering from the lack of magic in their own land. The Library took it for their own personal use and selfish reasons, and now these people may die in a _war_. Do you have any idea?”

Alice keeps crying, her body shaking with her sobs.

“It’s for the best. Once it’s done, then… Magic won’t ever be misused again.”

Quentin feels his own tears fall down his cheeks. He wipes them away angrily.

“You need to help me undo this.”

She shakes her head. “There’s no way to break a word as bond.”

Quentin chuckles. “You wouldn’t help me even if there was, would you?”

Alice walks forward and tries to grab his wrist, but he pulls away before she can.

“I love you,” she replies instead, her words leaving her mouth like a desperate last attempt at reasoning with him.

He lets her words sink and swirl inside him.

For the first time since they’ve met, Quentin finds that there’s no way those words will ever be returned again.

“But I don’t love you anymore, Alice. I’m really sorry things had to end like this, but I don’t see how we could ever move forward from here.”

He pulls away when she sobs harder and tries to reach out again.

“No, Quentin. Wait! Wait, you can’t just– Quentin!”

She follows him as he moves to their bedroom to pack up his things.

“You can’t do this, Quentin. Let’s talk, okay? We can get over this.”

He wipes at his eyes again, ignoring his breaking heart, and pulls his arm away from her grip again.

“This is not working, Alice. Look at us. Look at what we’re doing to one another. I don’t want to hurt like this. And I don’t want to hurt you either.”

“Then don’t leave,” she begs.

He shakes his head and picks up his bag.

“I’ll return for the rest, but I really need to be away from here right now.”

He walks past her and she wipes away at her eyes. She follows him back to the living room area, where he picks up his phone and keys.

“So, what? You’re just gonna go back to him now?” she asks bitterly.

Part of him expected her to lash out like this, but he hoped she wouldn’t let herself go down that road. His shoulders drop and he turns around to face her for one last time before leaving the apartment.

“This has nothing to do with him, the same way this quest for giving these people the magical healing they deserve has nothing to do with your late brother. It’s because you can’t understand that that you feel hurt and misunderstood. I understand where you’re coming from, Alice, but that doesn’t mean what you’re doing is the right thing. I hope when you finally realize that that it won’t be too late to change it.”

With nothing else to say, he opens the door and leaves her and what he thought would be a happy shared life behind.

* * *

Quentin parks his car near his father’s house, but doesn’t actually get out of it. He sits there and considers his options. What’s worse: knocking on the door, getting his old room back for a little while until he settles this whole mess and then give his dad a heart attack by randomly disappearing to go to Fillory or travel right now and leave his dad to find his empty car on the street?

The porch light is still on by the time Quentin reaches a decision.

Unbuckling his seatbelt, Quentin gets out of the car and grabs his bag from the back. He locks it and makes his way to the front door to ring the doorbell.

Ted Coldwater takes it as well as Quentin expected it. His eyes are wide with surprise when he finds his son on the other side of the front door.

“Son? What-What are you doing here? Something wrong?”

Then he looks down at Quentin’s bag and his features change to reflect compassion.

He steps aside and wordlessly gestures inside the house.

Quentin nods and smiles tightly at him.

The door closes behind them and Quentin stands there awkwardly, gripping the straps of his clothes bag.

“I… I need a place to crash for a couple of days, if that’s okay.”

“Of course, Quentin. That’s– You don’t even have to ask, son.” Then he looks up at his son, a complicated wave of changing expressions washes against his face before he decides to just bite the bullet. “You guys had an argument?”

Quentin looks at his feet and gives his father a one-sided shrug.

“I think there’s no moving forward from this, if I’m being perfectly honest.”

His father gives him a sad smile and pats him on the shoulder reassuringly.

“I’m really sorry, son.”

Quentin purses his lips, puts his bag down and looks up at his father to give him a small smirk.

“You knew all along, though.”

Ted huffs.

“I didn’t _know_ anything. I just thought you looked cute, but… things didn’t seem to be settling into the kind of relationship I could see lasting many years into the future, you know?”

Quentin nods. “I think that, deep down, I also knew things were never going to be like that. I mean, I think in the beginning I was hoping for that. I really fell for her, you know? And it wasn’t like we started arguing all the time or anything. I just… I think not talking did us as much harm as fighting about late work nights and whatnot would have in the end.”

“So that’s what finally broke the camel’s back?”

Quentin shakes his head and lets out a chuckle.

“If only it were that simple… What finally ruined it were the lies and secrets.”

Ted tilts his head curiously. “Secrets?”

“On both sides,” Quentin explains before his father jumps to conclusions. “Big things and little things that inevitably collided in a big mess.”

His father seems to digest it for a moment before hesitatingly asking, “Did you… find someone else?”

Quentin looks away and feels his cheeks warm up.

“I… not quite. I just… I did something stupid. I wasn’t even thinking right and… it was awful timing.”

“So… not an overall awful experience, then? Just the timing.”

Quentin runs a hand through his hair.

“I don’t know, dad. It’s… Everything happened at the same time and I don’t know what was me acting on something I genuinely wanted or felt and what was something born out of the complicated mess that was my mind in that moment.”

Ted nods wisely. “And the other person?”

“He didn’t know about Alice.”

Quentin looks up at his father, but there isn’t anything particularly harsh on his face. Not that Quentin thought he would ever have a problem with him seeing another guy, but mostly because of the divorce.

“I don’t want you to think I’m a horrible person. I-I didn’t let it go anywhere further. In fact, nothing would have happened at all if I wasn’t so… I know that with mom–”

His father quickly shakes his head and extends his hand to squeeze Quentin’s upper arm.

“Curly Q, you are not your mother. I would never judge you for the wrongdoings of someone else. It doesn’t make it alright, but I know you’re not a bad person and you wouldn’t hurt Alice on purpose like that.”

Quentin sighs. “Not that it even mattered in the end. We hurt each other.”

“But you’re both moving on now and healing yourselves. Maybe you can go back to being friends later in life.”

He smiled at his father. Now to the worst part…

“There’s something else I need to tell you about.”

“Okay. You can tell me anything, you know that.”

He nods in acknowledgement.

“How about I put this bag in my old room, you get some tea ready and we meet again at the small table in the living room?”

* * *

After explaining everything about Fillory and getting some extra bits from his father’s side of the story, things are starting to fit together like a big puzzle.

His dad worries, but he understands why Quentin needs to go back to Fillory to fix this mess.

They hugged before Quentin returned to his room some five minutes ago.

He’s now sitting on the bed, button box at the ready, heart hammering against his chest.

He closes his eyes and presses it.

When he opens his eyes, he’s sitting on his bed too, but in Fillory this time around. He looks over his shoulder and finds his crown sitting on his pillow.

He puts the box back in his pocket without breaking eye-contact with the metal band. When he’s close enough, he picks it up to feel its weight on his hands again.

Feeling it makes it real, somehow.

“I was hoping you’d return soon,” comes Eliot’s voice from the doorway, successfully scaring the hell out of Quentin who almost drops the crown to the floor, clumsily grabbing it before it can fall from his butter hands.

“Uh, hey. Sorry. I–”

Eliot shakes his head and steps into the room, giving the door behind him a small push so it'll slip closed.

“It’s okay. I know it wasn’t your idea and you meant no harm.”

Quentin looks down at his crown, embarrassed. He didn’t even deserve that when he put the future of his people in danger like that.

“Well, you know what they say about good intentions…”

“I’m trying to lift your spirits here and you keep slamming me down.”

His eyes lock with Eliot's. The taller man has a soft look on his face and Quentin feels bad that he's being forgiven so easily.

“I'm sorry about Alice. I swear I didn't know what she was planning. I never would have let her come close to the well if I knew.”

Eliot lets out a deep sigh.

“Let's focus on trying to find a way to turn this around before the mobs reach the castle with their pitchforks.”

He steps further into the room to sit at the foot of Quentin's bed. His prolonged silence makes Quentin realize that Eliot is waiting for him to sit beside him, so he does exactly that.

“Did, uh, did you guys find anything?”

Eliot shrugs beside him.

“I'm not sure if it's relevant, but so far we haven't found our way there.”

“There?”

Eliot turns to face him.

“Remember Fen, the daughter of the Knifemaker?”

Quentin frowns, but nods along.

“My advisor, Tick, helped her open a secret door in the Castle. Fen had been having these weird dreams, but this is Fillory, so we didn't really take her seriously. Turns out she actually had something to say to help us with this mess. Using some weird Fillorians nursery rhyme, they unlocked it.”

He squints and tilts his head at that. “Okay, that's… Up to par with all the weird in this land, I guess. What did this door lead to?”

Eliot sighs and his shoulders drop.

“That's the kicker. The door leads to a reservoir of magic. I've seen it, Q. This thing is huge, like an endless sea.”

Quentin stutters and settles on a frown. “Wait. That's good news, isn't it? It means we can get magic back.”

As if it was listening in on their conversation, the lights go out and they stand in the near darkness of the room for a few seconds. When it comes back on, it seems dimmer.

Quentin looks around them.

“I take it there's a catch,” he adds lamely. He should have known it wouldn't be this easy.

Eliot throws him a small smile and starts twirling the rings on his fingers.

“Yeah, we were kinda hoping you could help us with that. You know, a different perspective. When they opened the door and found the sea, they sent in a guard to gather some of the water and see if it could be used like what we would get from the Wellspring. There is some enchantment on it, because the poor guy turned into a fish the moment he touched it.”

“So… you're telling me we found this endless source of magic and we can't do anything about it?”

Eliot points a finger. “Not _yet_ , we can't. But,” he declares, moving forward to place his hands on Quentin's shoulders and squeeze encouragingly. “With your help, I think we can turn this around. After all, you're destined to do it, aren't you?”

Quentin tries not to let the tiny knot in the pit of his stomach tighten too much at the reminder of such responsibility and how trying to evade it got them in this mess to begin with.

“El, I don't know much about this place. I'm pretty sure my memories of it were erased and I keep remembering only bits and pieces, and none of it had anything to do with a secret reservoir of magic.”

“Okay, listen. I have a theory. I think you are remembering relevant things. When you have those,” he pauses to gesture vaguely around, “those _moments_ and almost drop dead on us, you remember things, don't you?”

“Yeah. I dream about them at night, too.”

Eliot nods, looking slightly more excited and hopeful.

“Yes, right! I'm hoping that maybe you will remember something about it now that we brought it up and got your confused and altered mind thinking about it.”

Quentin frowns.

“But wasn't this a secret thing that only Fillorians knew how to access? I don't think I would have known about it as a kid.”

The High King visibly deflates at that.

“We're running out of options, so I'm willing to try anything at this point,” he admits with a defeated tone.

“If only I knew if my grandmother and Uncles knew anything about this…”

And then it all seemed to click. What if…?

“Oh, shit! The letter! What if it's in the letter?”

It's Eliot's turn to be confused.

“What letter? What are you talking about?” he asks as Quentin crouches downs to rummage through the messenger bag he'd brought to Fillory with him.

“I can't believe I forgot about it.”

Eliot remains sitting and waiting for Quentin to find what he's so desperate to find, watching him pull out books and keys and all sorts of random objects from his bag.

“Ah-ha! I found it! I knew I'd slip it inside before I left.”

He gets up and triumphantly waves the paper at Eliot.

Quentin opens the envelope carefully, not wanting to rip any possible hints. Mentally crossing his fingers and hoping for any breadcrumbs to help them get out of this situation.

_'Little Q,_

_If you're reading this letter, then you already know what's going on and what I did._

_I'm really sorry I had to do that, but it wouldn't have worked otherwise and Fillory would be doomed._

_You probably heard stories about me. I'm sure the term “Watcherwoman” has come up. However, I'm not certain that you know what it means._

_I deal with this very delicate thing to do with time and different timelines. Somewhere in a separate plane of existence, there is a small garden where I tend to these clock trees and control time._

_You see, Fillory was always going to run out of magic and every time you came here in other timelines, you couldn't save it. There was never one particular reason, but the outcome was always the same, sadly. So I decided to change some details and try to alter the ending. This will be my last chance at it. I can't wind up the clock anymore._

_I'm afraid I can't help you much, because I never dealt with a situation like this during my time in Fillory. However, I can tell you that the last time you were close to saving it, you'd found this small garden underneath the castle that supposedly allowed you to make use of a secret source of magic. You didn't know how to open the door to it and time ran out for Fillory before you could. The flowers took well to people who love Fillory._

_I hope that, by keeping you away from magic until the very end, by the time you read this, things have changed enough for you to have found a way around it._

_Hopefully, this helps. Although I'm not around anymore, Fillory was a huge and beautiful time of my life and I owe it a lot. I hope you can save it from its untimely end._

_Love you forever,_

_Jane'_

“Oh my god,” he whispers, slipping the paper into Eliot's already outstretched hand.

“What do you think we have to– Q?”

Quentin faced the taller man, looking up at him and doing his best to focus on his beautiful eyes instead of the black spots appearing and disappearing around him.

“Hey,” he breathes quietly into the space between them.

“Hey,” the High King replies, slipping his arms around Quentin's waist. His eyes run all over Quentin's face. “You're getting all pale again. Are you about to pass out on me?”

The tunnel vision is back and everything starts to slowly fade to black.

“Yup. Sorry,” he manages right before he slips unconscious in Eliot's arms.

* * *

_“Uncle Rupert, why aren't there open and colorful flowers like I saw the other day?” young Quentin asks one of the Fillory kings._

_The man smiles down at him before picking him up and placing him on his shoulders. The child squeals with happiness and two of the nearest flowers seem to perk up with curiosity, a small bud growing from the green stem._

_“Look! It moved!” he yells, pointing at one of them._

_“They're special flowers, young Coldwater. They only bloom in the presence of someone who truly loves Fillory.”_

_The young boy starts getting antsy on his perch, so Rupert brings him back down and watches as his great-nephew runs across the field to examine the flowers from up close._

_“I love Fillory!” he exclaims excitedly, catching the attention of a few growing buds around him._

_Rupert approaches and crouches down to be at eye-level with him._

_“Yes, you do. And one day you'll do great things here, I'm sure.”_

_The child turns its big wide eyes on him._

_“Will I get to be a king like you?”_

_He shrugs in response._

_“Maybe,” he adds in a cryptic tone. “It's a complicated process. Even if you're not the chosen one, I'm sure someone will make you king.”_

_Quentin beams at him and jumps around._

_“Yes! I want to live here with mom and dad. Why can't they ever come with us?”_

_His great-uncle ruffles his hair when he comes closer._

_“You know, Coldwater, adults don't usually understand Fillory very well. I think it comes with growing up.”_

_The child frowns at him. “But you're an adult. And so are the others.”_

_“Yes, but we weren't adults when he first found our way here.”_

_Quentin looks around them for a while, seemingly letting it all sink in._

_“Does that mean I won't like Fillory anymore when I grow up?” he asks in a small voice._

_“Let's hope you're the exception to the rule.”_

_“I think I will love it forever,” he declares assertively._

_Rupert laughs and hugs Quentin close. The child looks over his great-uncle's shoulder and watches the flowers around them bloom._

* * *

Quentin’s fingers twitch around someone else's.

“Hey, sleepy head. Back to the land of the living?” comes Julia's voice from somewhere near.

“And conscious?” Eliot adds. Quentin can hear his feet moving closer to wherever Quentin is.

He slowly opens his eyes again. He's lying down on his bed in Fillory. Julia is sitting on one side while Eliot is approaching from the other.

“Any juicy revelations?” the High King asks.

Quentin sits up and frowns.

“Is there a garden downstairs?”

Those magic words take him to said garden by an open door that leads to a vast body of water.

“It's real,” he whispers to himself as he approaches the flowerless greenery. There is one very familiar looking stem right in the middle of it.

“Shit, we're fucked,” he says out loud.

“Why is that?” Eliot asks in a slightly panicky voice, walking closer to Quentin. “What did you see in your dream?”

Quentin shakes his head with a humorless laugh.

“If I'm the one who is capable of actually making this work, then we're screwed, because I never will. Not before it's too late.”

“I don't know if you've noticed, but you're freaking me out. I need to lead my people here and you're telling me we're done without even trying?”

Quentin turns to him, fists clenched in a mixture of anger and frustration.

“You don't understand!”

“Then, by all means, do care to explain it to me,” Eliot bites back.

“In order for this to work, I need to make that flower bloom,” he yells, pointing at the sad looking brownish stick.

“So, what, we try to use what little magic we have?” the High King asks, now more confused than angry.

“That's just it. We don't use magic. We have to use love. Real love for Fillory.”

Eliot frowns. “There are many people out there who love this place. I'm sure we can find someone.”

“Will we?” Quentin counters. “I don't mean to be an ass and point out the obvious here, but have you noticed how unhappy everyone is, right now?”

Eliot hangs his head and his shoulders drop.

“So, what? We're just gonna cross our arms and wait for Loria to attack or for the land to collapse on itself due to the lack of magic, whatever comes first?”

His voice seems to get higher as he speaks faster. He starts to pace back and forth, biting his nails.

“I did it,” Quentin whispers.

“What?” Eliot asks, not having heard him.

“I made some flowers like this one bloom once. That's what I saw in my dream... Or memory or whatever you want to call it.”

Eliot spins on his heels and walks closer.

“Could you do it again?”

Quentin sighs. “I was a child, El. I was happy. My parents were happy – or so I thought – and I didn't have any worries. I loved this place because my grandmother would bring me here so often. It was a child's fantasy. Of course I loved it! But now...”

He waves around him.

“It's all strange to me. I remember things, but it feels like I'm watching a movie play out in front of me. I don't feel connected to them, not in the way I feel to other more recent memories. I still can't say what's real and what's not.”

“Hey,” Eliot's gentle voice and equally gentle fingers stop Quentin in his tracks. “It's all there. You didn't see your face when you first stepped into this room and realized that whatever you had been dreaming about is real. It exists and they are memories of things you've lived.”

He pauses to place a hand on Quentin's chest, tapping above his heart softly. “You just need to reach for that feeling again.”

Quentin frowns when Eliot steps away again and turns to leave.

“Wait, where are you going?”

Eliot smiles at him.

“I think this is a solo ride, Quentin. This is between you and Fillory. Let us know when you've cracked it.”

His footsteps echo as he climbs the stairs and leaves Quentin behind.

He looks back at the brown stem, heaves a deep sigh and drops to his knees on the floor.

Running his hands through his hair and across his face, he thinks hard about all that he knows about Fillory.

“The books helped,” he starts. “When my parents... It helped.”

Even as he says it, he can tell that's the wrong way to go about it. Even the dry and dead looking stem seems to mock him. Is that all you've got?

He sits on his heels, rubbing the palms of his hands against his thighs.

“Fillory is one of the reasons my parents argued before they split up.”

Quentin hadn't even realized that was true until the words fell from his mouth. Suddenly, he can picture it all happening in front of him. He's younger, hiding behind a wall by the living room doorway.

His mother sounds angry as she points at his father, saying that Quentin's grandmother keeps putting all these crazy ideas inside their son's head.

_“He is a child. Of course he dreams about fantastical places where everyone is happy and nothing ever goes wrong,” his father argued._

_“He's obsessed, Ted! He doesn't hang out with other kids his age and play the games that they play.”_

_“He plays with Julia. She's a nice girl and they seem to get along just fine.”_

_His mother laughed. “Yeah, because he's convinced her to read those damn books. I think you should box them up and hide them. It certainly would force him to interact with his schoolmates more.”_

_“Why the hell would I do that, when they bring him such happiness?”_

_The shock had made Quentin step back into the tall table behind him, knocking everything that was on it. In a domino effect, the objects knocked into each other and an ashtray fell and shattered on the ground._

Back to the present moment, Quentin hugs his knees closer to his chest.

According to Tick, at the very best, they have until moments before the next White Night celebration – which is less than a day away, by the way – to fix this magic problem and make people happy again. If they turn this around and give people their magical white tree and its happy crystals, the world will right itself.

And it’s all on Quentin. No pressure, right?

Quentin drops his head to his knees, letting out the air from his lungs.

“Why did you have to make everything so difficult for me?” he lets out on his exhale.

He figures it’s probably best if it just lets it all go. He’s not going to stop talking until whatever magic words come out of his mouth to make the flower bloom.

“I was happy out there. Or, well, there were the typical ups and downs of real life, but I was managing.”

He lifts his head and looks out into the sea he can see from the open doorway.

“I have a job out there. I have – well, _had_ – a steady relationship, too. I’d moved past my parents’ messed up divorce. I had never even thought of magic! How crazy is that? And-and, suddenly, I can make things move with some strange willpower and a couple of moving fingers.”

He pauses and chuckles to himself.

“I was gonna say that little young me would probably love that, but I don’t even know that Quentin, do I? My memories were taken. Now I’m slowly starting to piece it all back together, but it still feels like a dream. Most of it, at least.”

The sound of the waves outside soothe him and he takes it in for a moment longer.

“I want it back,” he admits, tears starting to pool in his eyes. “I never gave it much thought, you know? I just assumed that my childhood had been as uneventful and depressing as the part of my life that I can remember, so no loss there, right?”

Quentin pulls the sleeves of his dark hoodie over his knuckles and uses it to wipe his eyes.

“But now I’m starting to see the good parts, the bits that were taken from me and… it _hurts_. I didn’t even remember my favorite uncle until a few weeks ago. How cruel is it for someone to take away the best parts of your life and leave you to deal with only the bad parts?”

He sobs quietly and continues to wipe his face of tears. His fingers slip into the pocket of his hoodie and pull out the dull crystal that was at the bottom of the box of things his grandmother had left him.

His fingers rub at it with some pressure, as if willing it to shine bright again.

“I guess I understand the people of Fillory better than they think. Better than even I would have thought. I want to give them that happiness again. I don’t want them to be robbed of it, the way I was.”

He looks down and shakes his head.

“You can’t dangle this perfect thing in front of me and then take it again. Being in Fillory, meeting all these people… it made me realize I wasn’t truly happy out there. I’d settled for what I thought would never get better. That realization sent me on a spiral. I had everything anyone could have hoped for, the regular life with no serious bumps on the road, and still, all I could think was that if all that couldn’t make me happy, then what would?”

He turns around to face the poor little stem.

“And then I travelled here. By accident. I forgot about all that was out there, I learned about so many new things and so much about myself. I realized that Fillory has so much potential, it could even make me happy at last. I saw how good it was before, in my memories, and I want that again, but better. I want to make new memories and get to keep them this time.”

He nods to himself, sniffing and drying the last of his tears. The stem looks a bit taller than before, but Quentin won’t get his hopes up just yet.

“And you know what? Deep down, I’m still that little excitable boy who wanted to pack his things and move here with his father. Hell, I might still want that. Now, how to best convince my dad…”

He looks down and smiles to himself, thinking of how interesting that conversation would be.

“I guess what I’m trying to say here is that I haven’t really changed from that boy who was told he’d one day be king and do good things for this place.”

He pauses, takes a deep breath and faces the green stem face on.

“I can’t say I feel the same way about Fillory as I did when I was a child, but doesn’t my belief on a better future, on Fillory’s potential, weigh the same as my innocent love for it did?”

He waits a beat. Two. Three.

Then he chokes on a mix of a sob and a sad laugh. He looks away and runs his fingers through his hair.

_Figures you can’t even make this right, Quentin._

He rubs his hands against his face and turns to the plant again.

“Holy fuck!”

It’s growing! There’s a flower now!

“Shit! Eliot! I think I did it!”

Quentin starts laughing and crying again. He finally did this one thing, this one thing that _mattered_ right.

Eliot makes his way down the stairs and meets the emotional mess that is Quentin.

“What happened? Did it work?”

Quentin looks up at him and nods, tears spilling.

“We’re gonna save this land and its people.”

It’s a beautiful thing to see hopeful happiness bloom in Eliot’s big grin.

* * *

“How do we know that this will work?” Julia asks as they approach the sea.

Quentin wishes he could give her a better answer but, “Trust me. I think Fillory listened and wants to help us help it.”

Julia nods. “Okay, so who goes first?”

“I will. It was my fault things derailed like this to begin with, so it’s my place to fix it,” Quentin says, determined, even if there’s a tiny ball of insecurity and fear in his gut. “I’ll try it first and if I don’t turn into a small fish, then you eat the other flower seed. If it all goes according to plan, then, together, we’ll use the sea’s magic to create a new piping system for all of this magic to flow.”

Fen shows up at the doorway.

“Eliot is getting ready, so please, don’t let him down. If this doesn’t work, they’ll probably kill him.”

Quentin’s heart skips a beat.

“Not that I needed any more encouragement not to fuck this up, but thanks for the last minute support, Fen!”

Julia chuckles when Fen frowns at Quentin.

“Don’t worry, Fen. What he’s trying to say is that, of course, he won’t let anything bad happen to Eliot. Now, go back up there and tell them we’re gonna try this out.”

Quentin takes a deep breath and shakes off the last of his nerves. This is it. He really hopes that prophecy is right and that he’s supposed to help fix things instead of ruining them even more.

“Show time,” he mutters, taking small steps towards the water.

He crouches down and scoops some between his cupped hands. He brings it to his mouth and drinks it.

He licks his lips before turning to Julia, who’s anxiously waiting by the shore.

“So?” she asks, a small tremble in her voice.

There’s a rush of something powerful coursing through him. He closes his eyes briefly, overwhelmed by it. Then he opens them again to face her.

“Your eyes,” she gasps.

He moves his fingers in a simple tut that Eliot taught him. The small rocks levitate. It feels like blowing at a stay feather.

Quentin focuses on Julia again with a confident smirk.

“It’s your turn now,” he replies. “Let’s bring magic back.”

* * *

It takes about an hour to create what is essentially a brand new distribution system for magic, but the hard work pays off in the end.

The plan was for Eliot to promise the Fillorian people their well-deserved White Night, then they would get magic back just in time to get the tree to work again for the celebration.

Although they were quite skeptical of the most recent rulers’ ability to pull this off, the idea of having a night of happiness and free of worries was too good for them not to show up at the usual clearing.

Quentin wonders if they haven’t been doing it still, even during the last few years, where the night came and went and nothing happened.

The weight of disappointment must have been beyond crushing. Those poor people.

But it was alright now. They were going to right this wrong.

He runs back to the meeting point with Julia in tow.

There’s a significant crowd already. There’s a nervous energy in the air, like coiled springs waiting for that big thumb to release them.

He sees Eliot and the others pacing in the balcony of the Castle. Margo spots them first and starts gesturing wildly, calling Eliot’s attention to them.

Quentin knows they know. He felt it the moment he and Julia set everything into place and magic started to flow freely again.

However, the Fillorian people can’t sense it the way Magicians can. They need to see it happen again. They need the White Tree.

They run inside and the guards lead them straight to the balcony where their friends are waiting.

“Fucking finally. You sure took your sweet time out there,” Margo complained.

“You know, you certainly didn’t rush to volunteer when it came to eating the flower seeds and risking growing fins for an undetermined period of time,” Julia replied, hands on her hips.

Margo rolled her eyes. “You’re lucky I like you, Wicker.”

“Hey.”

Quentin turns around at that. Eliot looks magnificent as always, wearing his High King crown and pristine clothes in the Fillorian fashion. Moments like these make it obvious to Quentin that Eliot really was meant for all of this. It really is in his blood, no pun intended.

“Hey,” he replies, somewhat breathlessly. He’ll keep his pride intact by pretending it’s all a result of running all the way back to Whitespire.

“You did it,” Eliot exclaims with a bright smile.

Quentin looks down and tries to will his warming cheeks to cool down.

“Let’s not jump the gun here. We still need the White Tree to come alive again before we’re out of the woods with these people.”

Tick clears his throat.

“I don’t mean to interrupt, but we should probably begin with the celebration. People are getting antsy out there and the whispers are only getting louder.”

Eliot nods. He gives Quentin’s arm a light encouraging squeeze before moving closer to the stone baluster.

“People of Fillory,” his booming voice shushing all the whispers and claiming everyone’s attention.

The way Eliot uses his kingly voice to address his people makes Quentin wonder if it all came naturally to him or if he practiced it in front of a mirror the moment that blade made him bleed.

“We are all gathered here today because I promised to bring back a cherished tradition in Fillory. I am aware that you were disappointed for having missed out on the White Night celebration after your last Queen passed away. Well, today I present you King Quentin Coldwater, her grandson.”

What? What is he doing?

He waves at Quentin to approach him. Quentin shakes his head, which only prompts Eliot to wave harder and widen his eyes at Quentin.

With a sigh, he acquiesces. Eliot throws his arm around Quentin’s shoulders and pulls him flush to his side. The angry noises coming from below them don’t help loosen that knot in Quentin’s stomach. Not one bit.

“I know you’ve all heard what happened and I understand you may be unhappy with King Quentin here, but he’s the reason we’ll have our White Night again, so I’m asking you to put some faith in him tonight.”

Eliot throws him an encouraging smile. Now there’s a knot and some crazy butterflies turning his stomach upside down. Great.

“I will ask you to turn your eyes on the tree as we watch it magically come to life,” he declares.

And so the crowd, as one, turns their back on the castle to focus on the big White Tree.

For the first few moments, nothing seems to change and Quentin’s heart races inside his chest.

_Come on, Fillory. Don’t let me down now._

He closes his eyes and remembers the spell Martin tried to teach him all those years later. Without even opening them, he steps away from Eliot, feeling his arm drop from his shoulders.

When his stomach touches the baluster, he takes a deep breath and moves his wrists to loosen them up a little.

Then it’s just muscle memory. He moves his fingers in a complicated flurry over and over until he feels the air shift around him.

There are small gasps around him and leaves flying around them. Then he feels it. The crystal in his pocket grows hot against his thigh.

Quentin finally opens his eyes and watches as the branches of the big White Tree start moving, seemingly awakening from a long hibernation.

Lights start to sparkle from its trunk, flowing all the way to the very tips of the white branches.

There’s a high-pitched squeal of a child by the tree.

“Mom! Mom, look!”

She points upward and Quentin’s gaze leaves her to focus on the tree again.

In a rain of multicolored gems, the crystals Quentin remembers from his childhood make their slow way down to the people waiting with open arms and open hearts.

Beside him, his friends are all excitedly leaning against the stone of the castle, trying to get as close to the action as they can.

Soon enough, a few crystals make their way down to each one of them. Quentin smiles when they touch them, eyes closed and growing smiles.

He remembers that feeling. More than just a vision or a mere dream. He feels it in his bones, as if it was just yesterday that he got his first crystal.

The one in his pocket keeps pulsating with some sort of repressed energy. He takes it out and watches it levitate in front of him, growing brighter for a second before coming back to his outstretched palm again.

Quentin feels that rush again and curls one of his hands around the glowing rock.

He’s both a young boy and an adult. He’s the innocent child whose world hasn’t shattered yet and the broken man who’s been through his share of darkness and came out on top.

Warm fingers slip into his and he looks to the side to see Eliot’s eyes shining down at him.

“I’m so fucking proud of you, Q. You fought so hard against all of this, but… once you realized this was your mission, you gave it your all.” He leans down to whisper, “look at all those smiles out there. That’s all on you. You did that.”

He leans back and grins at him. And, shit, Quentin is so besotted with this man that he’s not even capable of formulating words or sentences at that moment.

It’s okay, though. He has the perfect alternative.

He grabs the front of Eliot’s coat and tugs hard, bringing him down again, one hand grabbing onto the stone to steady himself. Before he can protest, Quentin kisses him deeply.

Something settles deep inside him. This is it. The last piece slotting into place. Quentin can see his future here. Can see himself ruling this Kingdom with these people. He can even imagine his father on a cottage somewhere near, building airplanes for the children to play with. He’s envisioning his life further down the road than he ever could before.

When he pulls back, Eliot is stuck between frowning and smiling at him.

“I thought you wanted to go back to your boring accounting life and your girlfriend after all of this went down.”

Quentin bites his lips and touches one of the many buttons on Eliot’s coat.

“Ex-girlfriend,” he confesses way too fast. “I thought that’s what I wanted, too. But now…” He shakes his head before continuing, a big smile on his face. “I don’t think I could be happier anywhere else.”

Eliot’s frown dissolves and his grin grows impossibly bigger. His arms curl around Quentin, pulling him closer. He dives for another kiss.

“Oh, stop it, you two! Ugh. They’ll be absolutely unbearable now,” Margo laments from her corner, rolling her eyes and making them pull away from the kiss with happy laughter.

Quentin turns back to the people having fun below them. Eliot stands behind him, arms keeping Quentin close, and his chin resting on top of Quentin’s head.

Yeah, he could be truly happy in this place.

**Author's Note:**

> If you've made it this far, thank you so much. You're the real MVP here. Hope you've enjoyed the ride!
> 
> Let me know your thoughts and feelings down below. If you wanna drop me a line, you can find me on tumblr as well.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Art for "Like gravity from underneath, we can't outrun our destiny"](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21793216) by [Ithilwen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ithilwen/pseuds/Ithilwen)




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